


Pinfeathers

by Laqueus



Category: Amulet (Graphic Novels)
Genre: An alternate title: Gabilan and the 500 OCS, F/M, Gen, So much setup and worldbuilding, Some injury along the way, character history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laqueus/pseuds/Laqueus
Summary: Everyone has a past, trailing behind them like a tail.Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived on a stormbird farm.And his name was Gabilan.





	1. The Egg That Hatches The Chick

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Welcome, welcome! I’ve been working on this on and off for, ach, several months now, and it has most definitely turned out much longer than I expected. Still, I have done my best, and I hope you enjoy it. It was born from a conversation with Laelaloo over on DA – she told me one of her headcanons about Gabilan, and I simply had to write something for it!  
> Fair warning though: this chapter is setup. A lot of setup. Onwards!

Llarell clomped into the pub. She couldn’t help it, in her heavy farm boots, clomping was her default footstep. She _clomped_ her way over to the bar, and rapped on it twice.

“Hey! Setton! You back there?” Llarell called.

“Coming!” came the muffled voice of the bartender. It was followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

As Llarell waited she turned and surveyed the rest of the pub, back to the bar top, elbows resting on its surface. Empty, the other patrons having skittered off to their homes and beds. The fire was banking low, casting a dim glow. As the footsteps drew closer, Llarell began chattering again.

“You would not _believe_ the hatchin’ we’ve had this year! I mean, I s’pose it’s to be expected, what with the layin’ being such a trial and bad things coming in twos and all, but honestly I swear it’s like the birds are trying to spite us or somethi-“ Llarell swung around, and her voice died away.

That wasn’t Setton standing behind the counter. Instead, it was another elf, a stranger. He stood there, smiling politely in a slightly awkward manner. Llarell shut her mouth with a snap.

“Can I help you?” he asked, with a slight touch of an unknown accent to his words.

He was a broad, soft-looking fellow, dishtowel slung over one shoulder. Rather than opting to style his hair in the usual fashion of braiding it or having it loose at shoulder-length, it was instead cut in an atypical fashion, just about covering his ears. Hair aside, Llarell couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she got the distinct impression that there was something else that was... odd about the elf. Realising that she was staring, she gave her order.

"I'll have the Three Bird ale, ta."

Normally Llarell was great at minding her own business, possessing the brusque and preoccupied manner of farmers everywhere; as long as the farm continued to run, she couldn’t give a hoot about someone’s past or personal business. But for some reason, the elf behind the counter kept drawing her gaze, and _she had no idea why_. Llarell tried not to stare as he prepared the drink, instead forcing herself to inspect the bottles hung behind the counter (a view that was already imprinted on her brain to such an extent that she could’ve made a detailed painting of it with her eyes shut). When the mystery elf swam into view once more, plonking the glass down in front of her, Llarell was grateful that she had an excuse to look again, eyes quickly roaming and mind racing as she tried to figure out why in the name of the Erlking she couldn’t stop goggling him.

She suddenly became aware that the mystery elf was now staring back at her; he’d definitely said something, but she’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d completely zoned out. What’d started out as quick glance had unfortunately stretched into yet another stare.

“Hmm?” she said, snapping back to reality.

“Three kresh?” the mystery elf repeated, saying it like it was a question.

“Ah, yeah, shoot, sorry.” As Llarell fumbled in her pocket for change, she snuck another glance at him. She _still_ couldn’t put her finger on what it was… But speaking of her fingers, hers felt like they’d been electrocuted, jumping and fumbling as the slippery coins eluded her grasp again and again. The moment stretched into an uncomfortable one, the mystery elf still smiling in a slightly concerned way behind the counter. She finally managed to slap the correct amount on the counter with more force than was necessary, and immediately spun around, burying her face in her tankard as she did, only to inhale at the wrong moment. She snorted and coughed.

“Surely it’s not that bad?” came the familiar voice of the barkeeper, Setton, as she emerged from the back room.

“Setton!” exclaimed Llarell through a fit of coughing. There was an unintended amount of relief in her voice.

“You alright?” asked Setton, one eyebrow raised.

Although she’d expelled most of the liquid from her airways, Llarell felt if she opened her mouth she’d probably cough some more, so she settled for nodding her head whilst wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

“Ha! It’s been so long, I though one of those birds of yours had finally carried you off, and we’d be findin’ your bones in a nest high up in the mountains! Though I see you’ve wasted no time in becoming acquainted with our new help, eh?” Setton clapped the mystery elf heartily on the shoulder.

“New help?” Llarell parroted, and ended up coughing some more.

“Ah, well, ol’ Kaspar here turned up one day and _despite_ what I might’ve claimed in the past-“ Setton shot a pointed look at Llarell, “-turns out I could actually do with a second pair of hands around here.” She gave Kaspar’s shoulder a friendly shake before letting go. “This is Llarell, and if you can’t guess by the smell, she owns the bird farm.”

“Oi!” Llarell turned her attention to the newly-christened Kaspar. Internally her mind started to warn her away, _what are you doing, why are you prying like this, what does it matter_ , but it was too late. “So you’re not from ‘round here then?”

 _‘"You’re not from ‘round here?" What sorta question is that?! This place has a population of thirty-four, and you know every single elf here! ‘Course he’s not from around here! Way to sound like a suspicious yokel, Llarell!_ ’ she thought.

Kaspar was still smiling, but there was a certain guarded quality to his eyes as he answered. “Yes. I have been travelling around for a while.”

A heavy pause rose in the air as Llarell digested that answer. It wasn’t really much of an answer at all. It was more of a _deflection_.

Reading the suddenly-awkward air, Setton thumped a fist down on the bar top. “Welp, we can’t stand here chewing the fat all night, got things to do! Kaspar, would you mind checking our stock of Felmet eggs? I was going to do it earlier, but ach, other things kept getting in the way, and now I need to see to that tap.”

Kaspar nodded, and as he did so the motion caused his hair to bob about his ears, drawing Llarell’s gaze to them. She began to open her mouth, but thought better of it and shut it. And just like that, the things that’d been eluding her slotted into place as well.

Kaspar’s ears were strange. They were pointed, yes, but they were also a lot shorter. A lot rounder. The pointed tip seemed like more of an afterthought balancing on the top, as if someone had taken a human ear and pinched it.

But the real meat of the issue was his _eyes_. The pupils were slitted, but they seemed fatter, and once again, _rounder_. Almost like they were dilating in the low light, much like a human’s would. _And they weren’t glowing_.

As Kaspar disappeared into the back, Setton quickly leaned across the bar, her face close to Llarell’s.

“Okay, look, it’s as dark as a bird’s backside in here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see how you’ve been looking at Kaspar.”

Llarell threw up her free hand in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, I've got nothin' against him!" She paused, as Setton continued to eye her. No one could fight Setton's stare; Llarell had seen the most burly of elves wither under it. She broke. "Buuut I _am_ wonderin' why Miss 'I-work-alone' Setton, has suddenly decided to hire help. What gives? You wouldn't even hire Hamer, and he slept out in front of the pub for a week trying to convince you, remember?!"

Setton drew back, looking faintly conflicted. She crossed her arms, gaze roaming up and across the ceiling for a moment, deep in thought, before finally letting it settle back on Llarell.

"H'okay," she began. "Okay." She sighed. "I guess I can tell you. But first off, I'm only telling you this because I've known you forever, and you'll somehow, ah... _bird metaphor, bird metaphor_... peck the truth outta me in the end. Second, what I'm about to tell you _doesn't leave this room_ , okay?" She jabbed a finger at Llarell, whose eyes widened in surprise. "If you even _whisper_ it to one o’ your birds, I'll know, and then I'll eat that bird, and it'll be delicious and I won't have to eat for a month. Am I clear?"

"Weird mental image and vague threat aside, yeah, I gotcha."

"Right. Okay. Right. You thought about the war, recently?"

"Huh?" Llarell was caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "No? I mean, I guess I'm always kinda aware of it, yeah; our birds are bred for it, but I don’t really _think_ about it.”

Setton nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the way it is ‘round here. We’re outta the way, so it’s easy to forget. But for a lot of folk that ain’t the case.” There was another pause as Setton considered her words. Llarell took a sip of her ale. “Kaspar… Kaspar’s avoiding the war.” Setton quickly held up a hand. “Don’t ask me why, he’s got his own reasons, for him to know and him to tell, if he chooses so. But, point is, he needs to be somewhere out of the way, at least until this whole war blows over.”

‘Blows over’. That was how Setton always described the war, as something that would ‘blow over ‘eventually. There was always a slight sardonic implication when she said it though; as if something as terrible as war could ever just quietly peter out, with no implications and mess afterwards.

Llarell nodded thoughtfully. “Right.”

“So to that end, he’s gonna be helpin’ me out here, until either the war ends or he moves on, whatever comes first. And that’s all you really need t’ know on the matter.” Setton stepped back, her hands on her hips, surveying something above Llarell’s head. “Right, I really gotta sort out that thrice-cursed tap, but remember, if I hear that you’ve been blabbing there’ll be merry hell to pay.”

Llarell rolled her eyes, smiling. “Setton, it’s me. S’not like I’ve got anyone to talk to around here.”

\---

 

Later, as she clomped up the rough track to the farm, Llarell looked at the moonlight as it played over the mountain peaks, and thought. So. Kaspar. He’d said that he’d been travelling around, and then Setton had confirmed that he was avoiding the war, which was. Hmm. Something. Setton shrugged to herself; she couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid that particular bloodbath. Up here in the mountain range known as Ganon’s Gate, tucked away on the edge of Gulfen, the claws of the war never quite seemed able to reach them. It was like the village was its own little country, and what stories of the war that survived the trip to their little outpost always seemed like they were happening to some other country, far, far away. Perhaps Kaspar was a deserter? Again, Setton couldn’t blame him. When a fight was going poorly a stormbird would turn tail and fly away and people would call it smart, but when an elf wanted to do the same thing, suddenly it was (in the words of the only piece of propaganda that’d made it to the village) ‘UTTER COWARDICE AND A FAILING IN ONE’S DUTY TO THE NOBLE ERLKING’. (Said poster displaying those words had a picture of the Erlking, seated, with a hand extended out towards the viewer. However the poster had gotten a bit wet on its trip into the mountains, and the colours on the Erlking had run, giving him a splotchy, melted look. No one had felt particularly driven by it to enlist, and so the village’s population had remained at a steadfast thirty-four.)

But then there was the case of Kaspar’s eyes and ears. Llarell had never seen an elf whose eyes didn’t glow, and coupled with his rounded pupils and rounded ears, well, it made you wonder… But then again, perhaps he was one of those elves who was into body modification? Or perhaps it was a birth defect of some sort?

Llarell shook herself, and stretched upwards as she walked, pointing both arms to the sky, making her spine pop. Whatever Kaspar’s deal was, she hoped he’d be comfortable enough here.

And with that, Llarell put any speculation to the back of her mind. She was a farmer, and speculation wouldn’t care for her birds.

/////

Time passed slowly in the mountains, and if it weren’t for the weather, it would seem like it didn’t move at all. For Llarell and her brother, Dattar, time was kept by the birds; seasons were more of an afterthought, yes the trees would change and certain plants would bloom, but _this_ was when the birds would start to moult, and _about here_ was when the males would gain iridescent feathers in preparation to attract females, and _this_ was when the birds would be rowdier, and more, in a never-ending loop.

Their parents had passed on years before, leaving the two siblings to manage and run the farm between them, and due to this there was rarely any time to visit on the pub on anything like a regular basis. As such, there were long gaps of time between each sighting of Kaspar. He was almost like a cryptid, Llarell catching a brief glimpse of him as he hurried through the pub, off to do one task or another, sometimes never seeing him at all. She had to admit, he seemed nice, if a little quiet. A dependable kind of fellow. But then again, that was an image based solely on speculation and what little she’d seen of him about the place – for all she knew, she could be wildly incorrect about everything and he could turn out to be a complete bird-backside of a fellow! Well, she’d never know the truth if all she did was watch.

As it was, things progressed due to a sudden whim one evening, two hatchings after Llarell and Kaspar had first met. Like that first evening, it was late, the pub almost empty. Setton was somewhere out in the back, fixing something; there was the occasional clink and tink of metal, and some much more frequent cursing and sounds of annoyance from Setton.

Dattar rose to his feet, clapping a rough hand on Llarell’s shoulder.

“I’m headin’ back, sis. I wanna check in on that hen one last time, make sure she’s still happy.” His voice was oddly soft for a fellow of his stature, and as a result people were often taken off-guard when he spoke, having expected a much deeper timbre.

“Sure, sure. I’ll be along shortly, yeah?” said Llarell.

Dattar nodded, and left. Like Llarell, his default footstep was a heavy-booted clomping.

Llarell sat, nursing what remained of her pint. She could have easily swallowed the last of it in one go, but that would mean having to up and return to the farm, thus getting locked back into the daily routine once more. She wanted to savour the final sliver of free time, make it last for just a touch longer.

Kaspar hurried by, a tray tucked under one arm. He stopped behind the bar, checking something below the counter. Llarell watched him idly. It was probably just the alcohol in her system talking, but she was suddenly struck by the urge to get to know him better. It’d been, what, two years since he’d come, and she barely knew a thing about him. He seemed a nice sort of fellow, not too hard on the eyes to look at, and it wasn’t like there was much choice when it came to folks out here. Besides, it might be nice to have another point of contact which didn’t fall into the category of ‘Brother’, ‘Soldier’, or ‘Setton’, and ah, _what the heck_.

“Hey. Kas. Kaspar,” said Llarell. Well, things were off to a good start, nothing says ‘hi’ like almost accidentally insulting the fella.

He popped up from behind the counter. “Can I get you something?”

“Nah, nah, nothing for me. Can I buy you a drink?”

For a moment Kaspar’s face was curiously blank and he seemed to shrink in on himself slightly, as if someone had just accosted him. Then, slowly, gradually, he relaxed. He checked the clock on the wall.

“I suppose I could. Closing time is nearly here, and I do not think there will be many more people tonight.” He smiled, but it was a quick, fragile thing, gone in a flash. “Thank you, Llarell.”

\---

It was late when Llarell finally returned to the farm – much later than she’d intended to be. Somehow she and Kaspar had gotten chatting, mostly him asking questions about the farm and farming, and her telling him about her life growing up there, along with the antics that she and Dattar had gotten up to when they were younger.

“You came home late last night,” said Dattar the next morning. He cast a knowing look at the bags under Llarell’s eyes. “Get sidetracked by someone, did we?”

“Ah, shut up, Dat,” she grumbled from behind a mug of coffee.

 Dattar grinned pointedly.

\---

When Llarell was next at the pub, Kaspar made a beeline for her the moment she entered.

“Ah, Llarell. If you do not mind, I would like to repay the favour.”

He’d bought her a drink, and there had been snatches of conversation between them as he worked. Llarell found herself enjoying both the experience, and his company. Before she’d left (once again having stayed much too late), she’d turned to him.

“How ‘bout you come up to the farm sometime? Y’know, to say hi? If there’s no one about, just give a yell!” She smiled, and quickly retreated out the door.

\---

“Llarell? Miss Llarell?”

Llarell almost stumbled to a stop in the middle of the farmyard, caught off guard unexpectedly. Behind her, the injured stormbird she was leading squawked indignantly at the sudden yank on its halter.

“Shh, shh,” she soothed, somewhat distractedly, as she ran a hand over its feathers.

“Llarell?”

Turning to where the voice had emanated from, she bellowed back. “Yeah?!”

There was a much quieter “Ah!” followed by the faint scrape of footsteps. The next second, Kaspar appeared, trotting out into the main body of the yard. A grin split his face upon catching sight of Llarell, and she felt her face respond in kind.

“Kaspar! Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” she said. “So, you finally decided to come an’ say hi!”

For a second Kaspar shrank back slightly, smile fading, eyes dipping off to the side. The next moment the mood seemed to have passed, and he was as he had been before, smiling and standing tall.

“I am sorry, Llarell. I did not mean to leave it so long, but-“

Llarell held up a hand, cutting him off. “C’mon Kaspar, no need for all that! You’re actin’ like it’s been two years, not two weeks!” she laughed.

Behind her, the stormbird made a soft trilling noise in its throat as it eyed the visitor. Kaspar blanched slightly.

“Hey now, none ‘a that!” Llarell warned. “Sorry, she’s just a bit antsy ‘cause she hurt her wing and it’s givin’ her gyp. Taking its sweet time t’ heal, too.”

Kaspar ran his eyes over the stormbird, drinking in the sight of her. While he doing so, Llarell took the chance to run _her_ eyes over _him_. She had to reckon that he looked even nicer in the daylight.

“I must admit, I have never seen a stormbird up close before,” he said.

“Ha, well, come with me an’ you’ll soon have your fill of stormbirds!” Llarell gestured to the bird. “I can’t really stop – gotta put this one in her stall – but we can walk an’ talk.”

“Ah!” Kaspar suddenly brightened up, a light entering his eyes. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance? I am familiar with farm work, although I must admit that it was mainly in crops and chickens.”

Llarell found herself smiling once more, and gave him a firm clap on the shoulder. “’S a good start! ‘Sides, when you get down to it, stormbirds are just chickens that’ve been given better wings. C’mon, the stalls are this way.”

\---

It was almost funny in a way, Llarell thought, how easily Kaspar slotted into her life, and how easily she slotted into his. On his free days, he would come down to the farm and help her and Dattar out (but mainly **_her_** , to Llarell’s secret delight), despite their insistence that he didn’t have to. Then, whenever Llarell had some free time, she’d head up to the pub, usually finding some excuse to bring some produce along: some eggs, or feathers for bedding, or, on the rare occasions when they’d had to put a bird down, meat.

Setton of course, found the entire thing hilarious, and delighted in goading them on, elbowing Kaspar when Llarell walked into the pub, and waggling her eyebrows at Llarell when she was staring at ‘her man’, as Setton put it.

“This is heaps better than any of those romance rags in the library!” she would exclaim, for what Llarell reckoned must be the fiftieth time in a week. She simply settled for rolling her eyes, and making a mental note to goad Setton whenever she was next in a relationship.

Others might have called it odd, really; she and Kaspar had somehow slipped into the waters of _relationship_ without any real proper confirmation of it. Locked into one another’s routines, it had just somehow _happened_ , somewhere along the way they’d crossed a border of sorts, ending up in waters that were a close companionship of a vaguely romantic sort without really being overly romantic in itself. But that was just the way things were, up in the mountains. You got on with the solid brick-and-mortar of living, and relationships were just something you fitted in the cracks along the way. It was a sharp contrast to the romance novels which had mountain life as their setting. Llarell had read one once, a rather tattered thing that had been lent to her by a neighbour when she’d been going through a bout of sleeplessness and had needed something to read at night. She wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, but had ended up with a completely unrealistic tale where the romance was the focus, and the mountains had just been a fancy sort of backdrop for the main characters to tramp around and gaze broodingly at the sunset whilst thinking of one another. Like herself, the heroine had worked on a farm, but proved to be surprisingly frail, constantly fainting at anything and everything, from blood, to animals giving birth, to the point where Llarell found herself both wondering how the farm ever made a profit and mentally making notes on how to improve the farm’s output.

It was only one evening, when they’d just finished locking up the birds for the night that, once again, on a whim, Llarell had turned to Kaspar, feeling a strong rush of affection for him and said “Hey, Kas. I think I love you.”

It was the sort of confession that would have made both the romantic hero and heroine in the book groan and turn between the pages. Kaspar had flushed in an oddly delicate way, smiled, and said “I think I love you, too Llarell.”

And that had been that, the pair of them walking hand in hand across the yard.

Confirmation.

And again, much like relationship, Kaspar moving in to the farmhouse just sort of _happened_. It all started during the winter; on nights when the weather was particularly unpleasant enough to risk going back down to Setton’s, he had stayed in the farmhouse’s spare room. (At least, that was the official story.) From there, the farmhouse slowly absorbed him as he gradually stopped over for the night more and more, and what few possessions he had steadily migrated there in an odd sort of exodus from the pub.

Setton, for her part, didn’t mind.

“Hey, it’s freein’ up a room!” she had said, and then promptly waggled her eyebrows so much that it looked like her forehead was having its own localised earthquake.

And while such an arrangement might have been frowned upon in proper society, up in the mountains nobody really cared, or even had time to care.

And so time ticked on.

/////

One day, Kaspar lead them far up a mountain trail. From there, the collection of buildings that was generously referred to as a village seemed like a scattering of toys.

“How far are you planning to take us, Kaspar?” asked Llarell, casting a look back at her farm. “S’just I need to change the bedding soon, before I get the birds in.”

Ahead of her, Kaspar stopped. “This is far enough, I think.” He turned, and smiled. Llarell found herself automatically smiling back.

In the daylight, his eyes almost looked like that of any other elf, the pupils contracted to a neat slit, the lack of a glow less noticeable thanks to being swamped by the sun.

“Do you mind if we sit for a while?” asked Kaspar, gesturing to the side of the trail.

“Yeah, okay.”

Together they plonked themselves down on the grass, Llarell flopping back to stare up at the sky, watching the clouds overhead drift by. A familiar shape cut across the sky, a dark shadow against the blue.

“Hey, Kas, look.” Llarell gestured upward. “Wild stormbird up there. They don’t usually come this close ‘cuz of the farm. Mus’ be a juvenile.”

Kaspar watched the stormbird pass by, head tilted upward, his profile neatly outlined against the sky.

“It reminds me of the time that wild stormbird broke in and bred with your hens.” His voice was oddly quiet.

“Hff, yeah, don’t remind me. Had quite the pair of talons on him; it took a week to repair the damage he’d done to nest-house wall!”

“Yes, it was most inconvenient of him to, ah, inconvenience you in that way.” Kaspar watched with a faint smile as the stormbird disappeared behind a mountain peak. “I wonder what his chicks will think of him, their wild father?”

“Ha! I can tell you what they’ll think: _who’s this strange ol’ cock_? Stormbirds ain’t much for family, y’know.” Llarell stretched, and settled herself again.

“Hmm, I suppose that they are not.”

Off in the distance a songbird sang, relieved that the much larger and potentially predatory bird had gone.

“Tell me, Llarell, what do you think of elf-human relationships?”

Llarell’s eyes snapped open from where they’d drifted shut. “What?” She sat upright, looking at Kaspar. His gaze remained fixed on the sky a moment longer, before turning to look at her.

“Elf-human relationships. Your thoughts?”

Llarell sat, slightly taken aback by the question. She shrugged, and reached up to scratch the back of her head, a puzzled look on her face. “Well, there’s lots of different folk in the world, and y’know, at the end of the day, s’long as you’re not hurting someone, that sorta stuff is your own business. Do what you want, yeah?”

“But what about your stormbirds?” Kaspar continued. “You control who they breed with, do you not think the same standard should be applied to people?”

Llarell snorted derisively. “Kas, they’re _birds_ ; they’d breed with their own family if they could! People are a different matter.”

“So, you would not object to such a union?”

“Why should I? S’not my business.”

Kaspar smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Llarell frowned slightly; this conversation was leading up to something, she could tell, but what? The unknown element lurked in the discussion ahead, like a mountain peak hidden in mist.

“Look, what’s this about, Kas?” she asked. Sometimes it was easiest just to blunt.

“My grandmother was a human.”

Strangely, Llarell found that she was not a shocked by such a revelation as she expected to be. Instead she just had the small thought of ‘ _Oh, okay, that makes sense,_ ’ flash by in her head.

“So you’re…”

“A quarter human, yes.”

There was silence for a moment, as Llarell considered this.

She shrugged. "Well, okay then. Thanks for tellin' me."

"You seem to be taking this well," said Kaspar. His expression was a mixture of many things: mainly guarded, slightly puzzled, and a tad optimistic.

Llarell took his hand in hers. "What, were you expecting me to turn on you or somethin'?"

Kaspar looked away, his expression grave, and that action alone told Llarell more than any wealth of words ever could.

"Oh, Kas..." She slipped her arm around his shoulder, and pulled him close. After a moment, he put his arm around her shoulder too. They simply sat like that for a little while, watching the sky as the clouds drifted by.

“I guess that explains why you came here then,” she said eventually. “No one ever comes out here.”

“Yes,” agreed Kaspar. He pulled away, suddenly animated. “I mean, it is not as if I am obvious, my tells are not as blatant as my mother’s! And yet…” He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“It’s not enough,” finished Llarell.

“Yes. My eyes do not glow, my pupils dilate, my ears are too round, and surely you have felt it, yes?”

“Felt what?”

“My skin. It is a little too soft for an elf, just a tad too spongy.” He brought her hand to his wrist, and place it there. “See?”

Llarell had never noticed it before, but now that he’d pointed it out, with her hand touching him, she could see what he meant. His skin was just a touch softer, and when she pressed down, it gave way without much resistance.

Kaspar continued. “I am an elf, but I am not _elf enough_. And because of the war, that is the incorrect thing to be.”

“S’that why you brought me up here today? To tell me this?” asked Llarell.

“Yes. I have wanted to tell you this for a while, but,” his tone turned sombre, “past experience warned me away. But I felt that I would be lying to you if I did not tell, especially since, ah…” He trailed off, fingers fidgeting nervously.

“If we end up havin’ a kid, they’ll be a little bit human too. That what you’re sayin’?” said Llarell. Again Kaspar nodded. “Well, like I said before, I appreciate you tellin’ me this. An’ lemme tell you, even though we might hafta think about it, if we did decide to have a chick, I’d love ‘em and everyone here’d love ‘em, and Setton’d probably spoil ‘em silly, because she thinks a great of you, y’know, and they’d be the best loved kid this village has ever known.”

At that, Kaspar laughed. Llarell had never heard him do so before; it was a rather high sound that tripped over itself, but it lifted her heart when she heard it. Untangling herself, Llarell hefted herself to her feet.

“C’mon. I’ve gotta get that bedding changed. Fancy givin’ me a hand?”

“For you,” Kaspar smiled, “anything.”

 //////

 _AN: Okay, I just wanna make a quick note down here -  if you’ve read X99.2XXA, then you’ll know I’ve got a particular giant headcanon involving elf names, and I was gonna slap it down here so that you didn’t have to go an wade through a 5(?)k Tremily story to understand, buuuut AO3's formatting is fighting me, so er, go take a lookat the end notes of X99.2XXA (sorry!)_  


	2. The Wings That Carry The Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Strap in, this is _long_.

In what could only be described as ‘a higher power having a laugh’, Gabilan was born in a nesting box, the specialised stall where a stormbird would lay her eggs.

Despite the wishes of Kaspar and Dattar, who’d both tried their best convince her to let them do it instead, Llarell had been cleaning it because “It’s gotta be done, and I’m pregnant, not dyin’!”

Later on she would recollect that it’d all been a bit of a blur, like someone had ripped out a page or two in a book; one moment she’d been standing there, pitchfork in hand, the next she was on the floor, child in arms, and “a hell of a mess everywhere! It’s like I didn’t even clean!”

Naturally, that was the moment when Dattar had turned up, bucket of bird feed in hand. He’d stopped, taken one look at the scene, gone “Huh,” and walked off. He returned shortly with a mop and bucket, and as if it was just another stormbird hatching, began to clean.

/////

Gabilan was an enthusiastic but shy child, staring at the world from behind Kaspar’s legs with owlish eyes, and following him around like a tiny shadow. If Kaspar was doing a shift down at Setton’s, then Llarell was the next port of call. And if she was out, or busy with the birds doing something where a small elf would only get in the way, then Dattar was the final option; hefting his nephew onto his shoulders, and giving Gabilan what seemed like a bird’s-eye-view of the world. In those early years, the farm functioned as both school and playground, with the stormbirds being Gabilan’s closest companions and teaching source.

“Watch out, he’ll give you a heck of a nip if you’re not careful,” Llarell warned, as Gabilan sank his hands into a stormbird’s feathers. “Since you’ve got your hands there, can you check somethin’?”

“Um, okay,” said Gabilan.

“Right, you should be able to feel a little line of ridges, yeah?”

Gabilan nodded.

“Now, do the ridges feel bumpy at all? Like there’s a load of little insect bites?”

Gabilan felt the ridges, his face screwed up in intense concentration – the expression displayed by children everywhere when they’ve been given what seems like a terribly grown-up task.

“There are no bumps,” he finally announced.

“Good. If there were bumps, then the poor fella might be suffering from chipsy, and when that happens you’ve gotta…”

And so Gabilan learned how to care for the stormbirds, and how to cure the various aliments which affected them.

One night, the little family sat around the kitchen table. It was winter, and the kitchen was the warmest place to be without going through all the rigmarole of lighting a fire in the other room. Dattar had nodded off in his chair, Llarell was going over expenses, and Kaspar was reading to Gabilan. Kaspar had just reached the end of a paragraph when Gabilan piped up.

“Why are your eyes like that?”

There was a pause, and the scratching of Llarell’s pen stopped.

“What do you mean?” asked Kaspar.

“They go like this,” said Gabilan. He held up his hands to his eyes, fingers curled over to resemble a circle, and then flexed them so that it looked like the circle was opening and closing.

“Ah.” Kaspar closed the book, setting it down on the table.

“S’just I was helping Auntie Setton clean some mugs yesterday, and there was this elf sitting nearby and he said to his friend that you had weird eyes, and Auntie Setton heard and then she stared at him in a scary way and he shut up, and I always thought that was just how your eyes were supposed to be but no one else’s go big like that and they don’t shine too.”

“I see,” said Kaspar. He shared a quick look with Llarell above Gabilan’s head. Folding his hands on the table, he leaned forward. “Gabilan, would you like to hear a secret? But-“ Kaspar looked from side to side in a conspiratorial manner, “-it is a very special secret. That means that you cannot go and tell others, no matter how much they might want you to, or how much you personally might want to. Do you understand?”

Gabilan nodded, his small face grave. “I’ll never tell anyone, not even Auntie Setton!”

Kaspar chuckled at that. “Good, good. Although, Auntie Setton already knows. But still, you are not to tell.” He beckoned Gabilan closer, who scrambled off his chair and onto his father’s lap. “Now, this secret actually concerns you, Gabilan.”

“Me?” Gabilan’s eyes went wide.

“Yes. You see, the reason my eyes don’t glow and do this-“ Kaspar mimicked Gabilan’s earlier action with his hands, “- is because my grandmother was a human. And I am a little bit human too. And so are you.”

Gabilan was now gaping so much that it looked like his eyes were just about to fall out of his head.

“I’m a little bit human?! But aren’t we fighting the humans?” he gasped.

“Yes, but just because we are fighting, it does not mean that all humans and elves hate one another.” Kaspar sighed. “It is a complicated issue. But due to the war, a lot of people might be cross that we are both elf and human. Which is why we keep it a secret, and live here, in the mountains, where no one will tell us off for being like this.”

“But… but why would they tell us off? Isn’t it good that we’re like this? It means that there are elves and humans who are friends! If we’re all friends then that means we don’t have to fight!” Gabilan protested.

Kaspar sighed again, a long, sorrowful sound. “Yes, if only that were the case. But I am afraid that that decision is not up to us. It is up to the Erlking, and the rulers of Windsor.”

Gabilan slipped off Kaspar’s lap, and spun around to face him. His pose was determined.

“Then we should go and see the Ei- Arl- Ile-“

“Erlking.”

“Yes! Him! We should go and see him, everyone who’s both elf and human, and once he sees how happy we are and how many people like each other, he’ll change his mind! And then he can talk to the humans’ king and they’ll stop the war and people won’t be cross!”

Kaspar chuckled. “Maybe one day we can do that. But for now, we will stay hidden, and we will keep our secret. Both of us. Promise?”

Gabilan deflated a little. “Okay, I promise.” The next moment he perked up a little. “Does this mean that my eyes won’t glow and will go big too?”

“No, no, your eyes will stay as they are. My eyes are like this because I am more human than you, and they have been this way since I was born. Eyes do not change.”

“Oh,” said Gabilan, looking disappointed. He scrambled back onto his chair, and looked pensive.

“I know this has been a very big surprise, and you might need some time to think about it. But for now, how about we find out what happens next to the first Erlking and the bear he befriended?” said Kaspar, picking up the previously-forgotten book.

“Yeah!”

\---

That night as Gabilan lay in bed, he thought to himself. Both he and his father were humans! Well, maybe not _human_ -humans, but sort-of humans! Wow! He snuggled down under the covers, too excited to sleep. Father had been cagey about it, but Gabilan just _knew_ that if the Argleking met everyone, especially him and father, then he’d stop the war. Even though everyone was apparently fighting, people were still being friends with each other, so maybe the people who were fighting just needed to be shown that everything was okay and there was no need to fight. Maybe they didn’t want to fight either, but only did it because the Owlking had told them too. Sometimes the boy stormbirds would fight because they both wanted to have eggs with the same girl stormbird, and sometime the girl stormbirds would fight because they were being something called 'territorial' which meant that they didn't want other stormbirds near their nests or chicks, but once the immediate fighting was over, they didn't care anymore.

People should be more like stormbirds, Gabilan reckoned.

Well, maybe not, because then they'd have to sleep in a stall and eat that weird protein grain and they would sometimes have an arm stuck up their backside if they were sick or if a laying was going wrong. Maybe it was better to be an elf.

A _human_ -elf, Gabilan corrected, with a grin.

/////

The years ticked onwards, Gabilan grew, and soon he started to attend the village's version of a school. Since children were such a rare event in the village, there wasn't an "official" school; after all, without children, what's the point of a school building? It would just an empty piece of architecture, an uncomfortable bit of liminal space. And that simply would not do; up in the mountains everything had to have a function, and purpose. Things were built to last, and anything new was given great consideration before it went ahead. So while the village didn't have a school, it _did_ have a library, and this had had the function of 'school' sewn into it many, many years before, while the librarian had been given the additional role of 'teacher'. If a child turned up, fantastic! Here are the books, off you go! If you don't like those books then, just pick some other books that you do like. Job sorted!

Sitting by the window, a pile of books open in front of him, Gabilan glanced up at the clock. _4:49_. Was that the time already? He shut the book with a snap that was slightly too loud, quickly gathered his things together, and headed for the main desk. The window panes rattled in their frames, as the wind hissed outside. The librarian, an elf called Brari, looked up.

"Heading home, Gabilan?" she asked. Despite her best efforts, Brari always spoke a little too loudly for a library. But then again, since the library was located so far up in the mountains instead of being in a big city, nobody minded.

Gabilan nodded, and put his books on the counter. "Just these, please."

"Are you sure you want to head home in this weather?" Brari cast a worried look at the window as she methodically stamped the books. "The wind is awfully strong, and I'd hate for you to be blown away. If you wanted, I could contact your mother or father, and you could wait here for them to pick you up?"

Gabilan shook his head as he stuffed the books into his bag. "No thanks, I'll be okay."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"I am! Bye!"

The instant he stepped out the door, Gabilan regretted his words, the wind gusting into him with such incredible force that it almost felt like he was going to be blown clean off his feet. For a split second he considered going back inside, but he quickly dismissed it. Both his parents and uncle were busy with the birds and wouldn't be able to come until the whole business was finished, which might not be for hours! Besides, they'd need his help, and there was no way he'd waste that time in the library when he should be doing farm work. And he was freshly turned ten, which in his eyes made him almost a grown up, and _definitely_ old enough to go home on his own! Driven by youthful stubbornness, Gabilan set out.

Heading through the village wasn't too bad, as the various buildings provided a decent enough wind guard, albeit one that was creaking in an unsettling way. There was the odd gap where a tunnel of wind would be blasting through, and these Gabilan crossed unsteadily, his face screwed up against the gale. When he came to the track leading up to the farm, he paused. It was very long, and very open. Well, he'd just have to make a dash for it, and hope that the wind wasn't too strong. He waited for a moment when the wind wasn’t quite as harsh. Not yet, not yet… now!

Gablian tore out into the wind, half-stumbling as he madly scrambled up the track to the farm. The wind buffeted him about fiercely, making him stagger every few steps as it capriciously changed direction, attacking him from a new angle. Near the end of the track he finally overbalanced, face scraping painfully against the ground as he fell. Gabilan lay there a moment, wind tugging at his clothes and trying to take him with it, before forcing himself back to his feet. He dashed up the last few metres to the farm, winded in more ways than one.

“Gabi!” called Llarell, hurrying out to meet him, the wind whipping her hair so it obscured her face. “I am I glad to see you!” Gabilan tried not to look pleased – he’d made the right decision in coming home! “I need you to go help your Dad, he’s in the barn, tyin’ stuff down. I’ve gotta go see to the birds with your uncle! Hurry now!” She gave him a firm clap on the shoulder and hurried away.

Not even bothering to drop off his bag at the house, Gabilan raced over to the barn, feet pounding against the ground. The barn, normally a sturdy fixture of the farm, was groaning like a sick stormbird. Gabilan looked closer. No, it wasn’t just groaning, the whole building was twisting and warping ever so slightly, shuddering as it did. Gabilan winced. The sooner they finished tying down things in there, the better.

“Gabilan!” cried Kaspar as the boy raced inside. “Good lad! Here, help me secure these pallets!”

Together the two worked quickly, tying down machinery, securing sacks of grain, and making sure that the large pallets of stormbird feathers were fixed in one place. Gabilan was acutely aware of the building warping around him the entire time.

‘ _Please don’t collapse, please don’t collapse, please don’t collapse,_ ’ he desperately thought.

Kaspar suddenly hissed as he felt his pocket. He was kneeling by a pallet, and having difficulty with the strap that secured it.

“It is not here!” he exclaimed to himself. “Gabi! I need you to fetch a knife from the kitchen, any sort! Quickly!”

“Right!” Gabilan shot out of the barn as if he were a rabbit with a stormbird on his tail.

He blundered into the house, speed making him clumsy, bursting through the doors until he reached the kitchen. Without pausing to stop, he snatched a sharp kitchen knife from the sideboard, and dashed back out, bag thumping against his side.

Gabilan was halfway across the farmyard, when the barn made a sound like a dying whale, and buckled.

Time seemed to slow.

Gabilan could only watch as he ran, wide-eyed and horrified as half of the roof and part of a wall was ripped off and whirled away on the wind, as if it’d been torn asunder by an angry god.

The remaining walls screamed in protest, twisting violently.

_Oh no._

He tripped, hitting the rough ground with a painful scrape.

“Father, get out!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet. But his words were torn away by the wind. “ _Father!!_ ”

And then two of the walls collapsed inwardly.

\---

The winds eventually passed on and petered out. They had been so fierce that they’d even made the news. ‘INTENSE WINDS PASS MIRACULOUSLY OVER GANON’S GATE’ the newspapers had said, listing wind speed data that could never convey the full force without properly experiencing it, along with statements from people praising what a miracle it was that no settlements had been hit by it. After all, who would care about a tiny village in the mountains with a population of thirty-four?

Machinery can break, and can be fixed.

Tools can be blown away, and be replaced.

A barn can be destroyed, and be rebuilt once more.

A man can die, and will be gone for good.

\---

Gabilan lay curled among the straw. The scent of both it and stormbird was all around him, blanketing him in its familiarity. He sniffed. His chest felt hollow, no, his entire body felt hollow, as if he was an elf( _-human, elf-human, ELF-HUMAN_ ) shaped void, with just a thin layer on top preventing him from breaking open and devouring everything with his grief. Behind him, a stormbird cooed gently and rustled her feathers, a warm presence at his back. She was one of the broodier ones, a good surrogate mother who had a tendency to take in chicks who’d been rejected by their birth mother. Gabilan curled in close on himself. The straw was prickly against his cheek, digging in uncomfortably, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care. What did comfort matter when- when-

When his father was dead.

A wave of grief surged through him, and he choked out a sob.

_“Father! Father, where are you? Please!”_

_Harsh coughing. Wheezing breath. The metallic stench of blood._

_“G-Gabi… Get…. ‘Rell…”_

Gabilan clutched at his face, as more hot tears spilled down it. There seemed to be no end to them, these days. Behind him, the stormbird cooed comfortingly and nestled closer to her ‘chick’. Eventually Gabilan’s tears petered out once more, and a new wave of exhaustion hit him anew. He fought it off, tried to repress it. No. He mustn’t go to sleep. Whatever happens, _he mustn’t go to sleep_. If he slept, then he might dream, and if he dreamed then he’d dream about…

Father.

Being awake was no better though. His brain kept playing tricks; he’d think of something to tell Kaspar, or would be expecting to see him later on, or he’d listen out for his footsteps when he heard his mother walking along, or he would see little items scattered around the house – a sock here, his favourite mug there – reminding him of his father, but then reality would set in, and he would remember and it would all come flooding back anew. And if that wasn’t enough, everything suddenly reminded Gabilan of Kaspar. There was no escape.

And what of their heritage? They were the only ones in the entire village with one that was mixed, everyone else was a full-bloodied elf! It’d been a special thing they’d had, a little secret that was only for the two of them. Now it felt like he was alone in a sea of strangers.

There came the familiar clomping of footsteps towards the stall. Gabilan considered turning over so he wouldn’t have to look at whoever it was that was approaching, but that was too much work; he continued to lie there. A second later the footsteps stopped, and his mother rested her forearms on the stall wall.

“Thought I’d find you here, Gabi.”

Gabilan remained glumly silent.

There was the soft click of a latch, the stormbird cawed, and then Llarell was squatting in the straw next to him. Gabilan dimly noted that she looked tired, heavy bags under her eyes, and had a strained quality to her expression. Silence.

“D’you perhaps wanna have something to eat? Dattar’s makin’ some potato fritters, if you’re hungry,” said Llarell.

Gabilan shook his head imperceptibly.

“Okay. Okay.”

There was a soft thump and a rustle of straw as Llarell seated herself next to him. She looked up at the stall walls which now towered around them.

“Y’know, I used to do this when I was your age, sittin’ in the stalls with the stormbirds. S’nice. ‘Course, sometimes I’d do it when I was bunking off from my chores, and boy, did my parents get cross when I did that! Ah, not that I’m cross with you,” she hastily added. She sighed, and sat back. “If anythin’, I wanna talk to you.” Llarell placed a hand on Gabilan’s shoulder. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. And this sorta thing, well, it doesn’t go away overnight. I wish it did, but it doesn’t. And I want you to know that there’s no rush for you to do, well, anythin’ if you don’t feel ready. But I s’pose that havin’ two more sets of hands ‘round the place, well, it was big help. I mean, your uncle and I ran this farm by ourselves just fine for a few years, but they weren’t exactly good years, y’know? Things were tough, and a lotta the time we were run off our feet, tryin’ to keep everything afloat. So when Kas started to help out, and then when you came along, well, it certainly felt like we weren’t drownin’ under a mountain of birds.” Llarell paused, and scratched the back of her head. “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, I know you’re hurtin’, and there’s no pressure on you to do nothing you don’t want to, but… Things are gonna be hard for a while. Those winds really did a number on us, and we’re gonna have to work twice, no, three times as hard for a while just to keep ourselves afloat and be on track with our bird-rearin’. We could really use your help, Gabi.”

Despite how much he wanted to continue lying there, Gabilan forced himself to sit up. The next thing he knew, Llarell had enveloped him in a hug. He didn’t squirm, or try to resist; instead he just sat there like a sack of potatoes.

“I’ll try,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you are a good lad,” said Llarell fondly. “How ‘bout those potato fritters, eh? They should be just about done now, if you want one. Do you want one?”

Gabilan nodded, ever so slowly.

“C’mon then, before Dat eats them all.”

\---

As Llarell said, ‘this sorta thing’ did not go away overnight, and for almost a year and a half Gabilan worked on the farm as if he was the most basic of robots, doing everything mechanically and expressionlessly. When he finally emerged out the other side, he was much more serious, as if some part of him had died and been buried with Kaspar.

And so life on the farm went on.

/////

One day, five years after Kaspar had died, Llarell clomped angrily into the kitchen, clutching a letter.

“I don’t like this,” she announced to Dattar and Gabilan. “I do not like this at all.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Gabilan.

“Are the soldiers trying to fiddle with the prices again?” Dattar looked up from where he’d been writing.

“Worse,” huffed Llarell. “Yelk’s only gone and closed up shop, is all!”

“You’re kidding!” exclaimed Dattar.

“I wish I flamin’ was!”

“But we’re almost out of sarella cream, beak-crack season is just around the corner and, wait, if Yelk’s closed up shop, then how’re we gonna sell the feather pallets?” Dattar suddenly stood, causing the chair the squeal as it scraped along the floor. “Where on Alledia does he expect us to go?”

Llarell looked at Dattar flatly. “Kanalis.”

“ _Kanalis?!_ ”

“Kanalis?” said Gabilan, inquisitively.

“Yeah, Kanalis. According to Yelk, our forces now occupy it, and so us ‘loyal subjects’ are free to use its trading services.” Llarell scrunched up the letter in her fist, before slamming it down on the tabletop. “Blast him!”

“But that’s so bleeding far away from here! It’d take at least a week or two to reach it, even with a fast airship! Lemme see that.” Dattar hurried over, taking the crumpled letter from Llarell. His eyes scanned back and forth across the paper, expression darkening as he read.

Quietly Gabilan got up. He tried to take a peek at the letter over Dattar’s shoulder, but the next moment his uncle had whipped it away, gesturing furiously.

“That backside of an elf, Erlking curse him!”

Kanalis. Gabilan didn’t really know much about it; the books at the library hadn’t contained much on the subject, other than it was a fairly sizeable port town in Windsor. One of the books had made vague mention about some sort of animal curse, but the author had gone on to speculate that, as with many places that claimed to be haunted or have some sort of curse, there was probably no concrete evidence, and it was most likely used as a draw for the place for morbidly-minded tourists: ‘ _Come to the town that’s cursed!_ ’

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“We could try and seek out another place that sells the cream and would be willing to trade, closer to home,” said Dattar. “But without having a concrete address to follow, we’d be wasting time and might as well be searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Llarell snorted. “Sounds about right!”

“Or we could go to Kanalis,” Dattar continued. “It’s a long journey, but if someone set out immediately, they might make it back in time before the major cases of beak-crack. It’s a bind of a situation, that’s for sure.”

“No kidding!”

Gabilan was slightly taken aback by his mother’s sharp outburst. He’d never known either her or his uncle to be quite so rattled about something, not even after his father died, when the world was nothing _but_ rattle. But the situation was serious. If they didn’t have the necessary cream to treat beak-crack, then birds could potentially die, potentially leading to the farm going under. It seemed like there was only one road available to them.

“I think we should go to Kanalis,” said Gabilan. “It’s like uncle says, if we set out now, then hopefully we can be back in time before things get severe. Whereas if we just try and look for another supplier, we could end up wasting time while the birds sicken and die.”

Llarell crossed her arms, and frowned at the ceiling.

“Much as I hate to admit it, you’ve got a point,” she eventually sighed. “C’mon. We’d better get going as soon as possible.”

\---

Just over a week later, Gabilan stood on the deck of an airship as it approached Kanalis. He stared at the town; at the myriad of airships coming and going, all different shapes and sizes, some hauling cargo, others transporting people, as well as the smaller, privately-owned airships for personal use which nipped between the larger vessels. There were even honest-to-goodness houses walking into town! Impossible! And the _people_ -! Gabilan had never seen so many folk all together in one place in his life before, the numbers threatened to overwhelm him alone from a distance. Such a wide variety too, elves (and a disproportionate amount of elf soldiers), soft-skinned humans, all manner of robots in all shapes and sizes, and was that a _horse_ walking next to a _goose_? Once he’d spotted it, he couldn’t stop. There were anthropomorphic animals _everywhere_ , scattered throughout the crowds in such a number that it seemed that _they_ were the dominant residents of the town.

‘ _Just a lure for tourists, eh?_ ’ thought Gabilan.

Evidentially _someone_ needed to better research the towns they wrote about…

There was a heavy clomping noise, and a second later Llarell was leaning on the railing next to him. It was just Gablian and his mother on this trip; Dattar had stayed behind to run the farm. The reasoning had been that given the current political climate, it was safer to send two, rather than one.

“Welp, there it is, Gabi. Kanalis. Whaddya think?” said Llarell.

Gabilan considered his answer for a moment.

“It’s not exactly what I was expecting,” he finally said, watching a bull unload a crate.

Their airship took a painfully long time to dock, moving with an almost excruciating slowness as it drew up alongside the port, and was tied up. And as if that wasn’t enough, then there was a brief bit of paperwork for the captain to sign, which had to be signed by someone else, and _then_ they were allowed to disembark… only to have to show their papers to an elf solider at the docking entrance.

He looked tired and bored, scanning their documents with an air of detached interest. His armour was slightly tarnished, with some fresh dents in it. His eyes briefly flicked up, taking in Gabilan and Llarell’s farming attire, then flicked back down to the papers. He made a small noise, and in a well-rehearsed move, stamped the papers, before handing them back to Llarell.

“Watch yourself out there,” he quietly said, as the pair walked past.

Gabilan glanced back, wanting to ask what the soldier meant, but he’d already moved onto the next passenger, looking at their documentation with the same amount of enthusiasm he’d shown whilst looking at Gabilan and Llarell’s.

“What do you think he meant by that?” asked Gabilan.

“I dunno, but right now we need to focus on getting’ the cream. Get in, get that done, get home, got it?” said Llarell. “We can sort out a produce buyer later, when our birds aren’t dyin’.”

\---

Their search ended up taking nearly the entire day. For hours they trawled across town, bouncing from shop to shop, stall to stall, with little success; some simply didn’t have the cream, while others turned them away with dark looks and the words “We don’t serve _your kind_ here.” Kanalis might have been occupied by the elf forces, but the townsfolk weren’t going quietly, and microaggressions against civilian elves were the theme of the day. The elf soldiers were another matter, notable space opening up around them like they were oil in water, ah, but the elves who weren’t armed? Why, it was open season. Everywhere he went, Gabilan could feel angry staring boring a hole in his back. The sheer amount of people around him made him feel claustrophobic, even more so when they were bumping into him and stepping on the back of his boots with a force that was in no way accidental, and deliberately cutting in front of him. Finally, Gabilan had had enough.

“What is your problem?” he demanded, grabbing the arm of the stag that’d bumped him.

It came out louder than he’d intended, and in a heartbeat Gabilan felt the eyes of everyone in the vicinity silently shift to him.

“Gabi,” warned Llarell. “C’mon. Leave it, he’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, _Gabi_ ,” the stag sneered.

At that, something snapped in Gabilan with such force that he could practically hear it break. His fist shot forward. It caught the stag squarely in the face with a resounding _thwok_.

“Gahh!”cried the stag. He wrenched himself out of Gabilan’s grip, staggering backwards with both hoof-like hands to his face.

A sea of angry muttering flared up in the crowd, and now there was a definite air of menace winding through it as people turned their full attention to the situation. Gabilan glared at them, anger running red-hot through his veins; _go on, try something, I dare you!_

“You filthy corpse-skin!” yelled the stag, blood dripping from his nose.

“Corpse-skin?!” snapped Gabilan. “At least I’m not some dirty farm animal that can’t see where they’re going!”

The crowd drew closer together, the muttering now distinctly louder.

“Okay, time to go,” said Llarell.

She planted her hands firmly on Gabilan’s shoulders, and hurriedly steered him away, leaving the angry crowd and the stag screaming insults behind them.

“Corpse-walker! Scum! Glowing-eyed fiends! You’ll get what’s coming to you!”

“Mother-“ began Gabilan.

“Not _now_ ,” snapped Llarell, her voice like iron.

So Gabilan sullenly stayed silent. His hand hurt from where he’d punched the stupid stag, breeding further resentment. Once they were a safe distance away, Llarell pulled him into an alley. The moment they were inside, Gabilan rounded on her.

“Mother, you saw what he did! People have been hassling us all day! Just because we’re elves!” he exclaimed.

“D’you think I don’t see that?” snapped Llarell. “That I don’t see that folks are turnin’ us away and makin’ this whole mess drag out longer ‘cause of it?! Erlking be cursed, Gabilan, what were you thinkin’?”

“I wasn’t!” he yelled, once again not thinking. “But I couldn’t let him get away without doing something! Someone had to hold him to account for the way he was acting!”

“By almost startin’ a _fight?!_ ” Llarell exhaled through her teeth. “Look, Gabilan, I know you’re angry at him; heck, I was a feather away from givin’ him a belt too, but we’re in _Kanalis_. This ain’t our town, these ain’t our people, and right now they’re pretty featherin’ ticked at us elves. If things turn ugly, then we’re gonna come off worse.”

Gablian looked away. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, helped along by his mother’s words, he could feel his temper beginning to cool, leaving nothing but bitterness and resentment behind.

“It’s gonna be a pain, but I need you to keep a lid on things, just until we’ve got the blasted cream and are on our way home. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” he said, bitterly.

“Good.” Llarell took a quick check outside the alley. Satisfied by what she saw, she beckoned to Gabilan. “C’mon. I see a shop over there. Maybe this time we’ll have some luck, eh?”

\---

They did not have any luck at that shop. Nor the next one, nor the one after that. But finally, at the shop after that, they met with success.

“Sarella cream? Yeah, I’ve got some in stock,” said the shopkeeper. “Lemme go get it.”

The shop in question was small, and not in the best location, tucked out of the way down an alley off a main road. It was narrow and slightly dark, the sunlight blocked from entering due to it facing out onto another building. The slightly-sweet smell of animal feed lingered about the place, making Gabilan feel both at home, and mildly homesick. They didn’t have long to wait before the shopkeeper returned, carrying a barrel of sarella cream in her arms. Arms, Gabilan noted, that had thick fur beginning to sprout from them, and hands whose nails were slowly elongating into bear claws.

As she rang up the purchase, the shopkeeper chatted amicably, more to herself than to her customers.

“You two bird farmers? Ah, it’s a good life, I used to be one too; Prekers were what I raised. You ever raise ‘em? No? Ah, right, of course, sarella cream, you must be stormbird folk. ‘Course, what with one thing and another,” and here she cast a particular sort of glance at Gabilan and Llarell, “we went under, and I ended up coming here. It’s not the best spot for a shop, and I haven’t been here long enough to make the judgement on whether I’m going to be able to make a living, but hey, at least this way I’m still working with birds! Albeit distantly!”

Llarell smiled an indulgent smile that was somewhat strained, whilst Gabilan tried not to glower, and the instant the transaction was over they practically bolted from the shop.

Together they hurried back across the town, towards the port; the sun was sinking slowly past the horizon, casting everything in an orange glow.

“If we hurry, we might be able to catch an earlier airship!” said Llarell as they ran.

Gabilan settled for nodding, the majority of his concertation going into holding the barrel and stopping it from slipping out of his arms.

They dashed around a corner, crossed a plaza to get to the port, turned another corner…

And promptly almost ran into a wall of soldiers that were blocking the entrance.

“Here, what’s this?!” Llarell demanded. She bobbed back and forward, looking for a gap to squeeze through.

“The port is closed,” intoned a soldier.

“What?! Why?!”

“A dangerous war criminal has been spotted in town. As such, Kanalis is now on lockdown. All roads out are now closed, and any travel to and from Kanalis is banned. Thank you for your patience.” The soldier gazed dully ahead as he spoke, sounding more like he was reciting a notice than actually telling them why they couldn’t leave.

Annoyance flared up within Gabilan. “But we’ve got to get home! Without this medicine, our birds will die!”

“All travel to and from Kanalis is barred. No exceptions,” repeated the soldier.

Gabilan glowered at him, taking a step forward; both his arms were occupied with holding the barrel, but he’d do something – headbutt the guy, maybe. Llarell placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave a small shake of her head. She turned back to the soldier, her expression sharp.

“Look, can’tcha make an exception? We’re farmers,” she gestured to both herself and Gabilan. “We raise stormbirds for the war effort, and if we don’t get back home pronto, then our birds are gonna die, and things’ll suffer as a result. Surely you can make an exception for us?”

“All travel is barred.” The soldier raised a hand, and gently but firmly pushed Llarell away.

“Now see here-!”

“I suggest you move along.” The soldier pronounced the words slowly and deliberately, the meaning clear: an order in the guise of a suggestion.

Llarell glowered at the solider, and now it was Gabilan’s turn; he nudged her with his shoulder.

“They’re not going to relent. Come on, I’m sure it’ll be open in the morning.”

“Fine. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to stay.”

\---

Unfortunately, like finding the cream, finding a place to stay was easier said than done. The hotels were packed with people in a similar predicament, all trapped in Kanalis until the roads were open once more. Gabilan and Llarell trailed from hotel to hotel, only to be greeted with an endless array of ‘No Vacancy’ signs, and the words “Sorry, we’re full”. All the while, the barrel grew heavier and heavier in Gabilan’s arms, and he found himself readjusting his slipping grip more and more. Finally they came to the last place in town, having tried everywhere else. Night had now well and truly fallen, and light spilled out of the hotel’s windows and doors.

“This looks promising,” said Gabilan, nodding at the ‘Vacancy’ sign.

Llarell pushed open the door, holding it open so that Gabilan could go first.

“Thanks.”

He started to walk forward, only to suddenly jolt to a stop.

There, standing behind the counter, was the stag he’d punched earlier. He was chatting to a little mixed group of animals, humans and robots, too caught up in his tale to notice who was standing in his doorway.

“I don’t know what his problem was! I was just walking along, minding my own business, when two of the corpse-skinned jerks got all up in my face, and tried to rough me up! Of course, I _tried_ to defend myself, and received this for my troubles.” The stag gestured to his now-bandaged face, pausing for a reaction from his audience.

“That’s terrible!”

“Ugh, I swear, elves are nothing but trouble.”

“I can’t believe they’d try something like that in broad daylight!”

“I know, I know!” The stag gestured at his audience.

“C’mon Gabi, either get in or get out,” said Llarell.

“We cannot stay here,” he replied.

“Huh?” Llarell frowned, and looked inside. Immediately her eyes widened with recognition.

They beat a hasty retreat.

“Well, what now?” said Gabilan, as they wandered along the street. “That was our last option.”

Llarell was silent for a moment, digging around in her pocket. After a moment, she drew out a small, folded piece of paper.

“I hoped that it wouldn’t come t’ this,” she muttered, before continuing on in a louder voice. “There’s one final place we can try.”

\---

A short while later, Gabilan found himself standing on the doorstep of a house. It was in a residential area, and the houses around it were so clustered together that they practically formed a little courtyard between them. He’d already seen several pairs of curtains twitching, as people peeked out at them. Next to him, Llarell paused for a moment, summoned up her courage, and knocked on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Still no answer.

“Perhaps there’s no-one home,” said Gabilan.

Llarell’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the door. She raised her hand once more, ready to knock, only for it to suddenly swing open. Standing in the doorway was a remarkably tiny little owl, staring owlishly up at them. A shawl was draped over her shoulders, and her feathers looked worn but soft. She gazed sleepily up at Llarell, then her gaze slid to Gabilan, and an expression of surprise crossed her face.

“Ah, ‘scuse me,” said Llarell. “I know it’s late, and you’d probably rather be in bed, but…”

“Melusine? Is that you?” said the owl, still looking at Gabilan. Her voice was soft, and slightly frail.

She was staring at him so intently, as if she was trying to figure out something in her head. It made Gabilan feel acutely uncomfortable, and he adjusted his grip on the barrel once more. Next to him, Llarell coughed.

“Erm, no. This is Gabilan. He’s your great-grandson.”

At that, a mixture of recognition and disappointment entered the little owl’s eyes, as Gabilan’s head snapped around. She was his _what_? Both of mother’s grandparents were long deceased, so that left only one option. He looked back at the owl, automatically inserting her into his family tree: father’s grandmother. Then… she was the source of his human genes. And she was still _alive_? And living in Kanalis?

“Ah, I see,” she said in a voice as quiet as a whisper. She made a beckoning gesture with her wing. “Please do come inside.”

Gabilan soon found himself seated in what could only be described as a parlour, mercifully free of the barrel. Heavy drapes kept the night at bay, while all of the furniture and decorations had a particularly antique feel to them. Surrounded by so many delicate objects, he felt very out of place in his rough farming clothes, almost like he’d break something just by looking at it. An artificial floral scent perfumed the air, just teetering on the verge of being cloying. Llarell sat opposite, clutching the paper in her hands like it was about to fly away. His great-grandmother, whose name had turned out to be Martha, shuffled into the room, bearing a tray of cocoa and toast. Despite himself, Gabilan’s stomach growled; what with running around all over Kanalis, he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. Carefully Martha set the tray down on a low table, and settled herself in a chair. She gestured to the tray.

“Please. Help yourself, dears.”

Judging from Llarell’s starved expression, she was just as hungry as Gabilan was, and together they fell on the food, trying their best to be polite despite their hunger.

“Once again, I’m sorry to be botherin’ you so late at night,” said Llarell.

Martha held up a wing to silence her. It was a strange appendage, Gabilan had to admit, like someone had taken a bird wing and a human arm and fused them together, making a feathery limb with an oddly large hand whose fingers tapered into feathers.

“Nonsense, it’s always a treat to see family. Especially when they’ve come from so far away.” She turned to Gabilan. “You’ll have to forgive an old woman for staring, dear; you just look so much like my dear Melusine, in the shape of your face, and the way you stand. It’s like she’s back among us once more.” Martha’s tone was wistful, and she stared into the middle distance, at memories only she could see. She shook herself slightly. “But what of my dear grandson? Is Kaspar not with you?”

There was an awkward hitch in the air, as Gabilan and Llarell’s eyes flicked to one another. _She didn’t know_. Llarell set down her mug with a soft tap.

“Well, ah, about that. I’m afraid I have some… bad news.” She trailed off.

“There was an accident,” said Gabilan. The familiar ache of grief opened up in his chest, but he ignored it. “He was securing things in the barn during a storm, and it,” he paused. “It collapsed. There was nothing we could do.”

As they’d been speaking, Martha’s expression had been steadily dropping, and when Gabilan finished, she held a wing to her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I-I meant to write to you about it, but then suddenly too much time had passed and I dunno, I felt I’d be intrudin’ or it’d be inappropriate, gettin’ letters from some strange elf that ya didn’t know, ‘specially in these times,” Llarell stammered.

‘ _Ah_ ,’ thought Gabilan. ‘ _So that was why she had Martha’s address_.’

Martha sat, her wing covering her face. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. She sniffed, and pulled out a delicately embroidered handkerchief, before daubing at her eyes and blowing her nose on it. After taking a moment to compose herself, she spoke.

“Truth be told, I had half expected this.”

“You did?” exclaimed Gabilan, before clapping a hand over his mouth as Llarell shot him a look. “Sorry.”

Martha carefully tucked the hankie back in her pocket. “Yes. I often saw him when he was younger, but after my dear Melly died, when he was, oh, a little older than you I’d say, well…” She sighed. “He began to run and never stopped. I begged the boy to come and stay with me here in Kanalis, absolutely _begged_ it of him. But he said no, said that he’d just be putting me in danger, and left. And I remember thinking as I watched him go, _this is the last time I’ll ever see him alive_. It was such a horrible thought, with all the clearness and clarity of a bell. And now I find out that I was right.”

A sombre silence descended on the room.

“I’m sorry,” said Llarell.

Martha reached forward and patted her on the hand. “Nothing to apologise for, dear. If anything, I should be thanking you for letting me get to meet my great-grandson.” She smiled at Gabilan. “Well now, you two sound like you’ve had quite the long, tiring day. Come along, I’ll show you to the spare room.”

\---

The next morning in the early light of dawn, Gabilan and Llarell stood on Martha’s doorstop once more.

“Thanks again for lettin’ us stay,” said Llarell. “Sorry we just kinda dropped in on you outta the blue.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Gabilan.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Martha. “It was lovely to meet you both, and thank you for letting me know what happened to Kaspar. The port should have re-opened, but if there’s any trouble, please don’t hesitate to come on back.”

They bid her farewell, waving as they left. The walk down to the port was a little quieter, but not by much; Kanalis was a port town, and port towns rose early. Spurred on by a good night’s sleep, the singing of the birds, and having got what they’d come for, Gabilan felt oddly optimistic. Yesterday had been a horrendous trial, but today they’d begin the long journey home. What could possibly go wrong?

As they drew closer to the dockland however, Gabilan couldn’t help but notice that something was off. The noise level seemed to be increasing beyond its usual volume. Granted, ports were noisy places as people yelled goodbye to one another, and instructions about cargo were shouted over the whirr of machinery, along with the usual chatter you got when people were together, but this, this was something different. It was different quality of noise. Once they got nearer, he saw what it was. A huge crowd of various people were gathered at the port, all loudly clamouring, while several rows of elven soldiers barred the way.

“Attention everyone!” shouted a soldier. “The port is closed! Any and all travel in and out of Kanalis is banned until such a time as the criminal has been apprehended! I repeat: The port is closed! Kanalis is on lockdown! Return to your homes, or place of residence!”

“Oh no,” Llarell groaned.

It was all too clear that no one would be going anywhere that day.

\---

In the end, they were stuck in Kanalis for little over a week, and it was the most tedious week Gabilan had ever known. Every day he and Llarell would trail down the port to see if it was open, and every day the answer would be the same, bellowed at them by a solider: _The port is closed_. For the first couple of days they proceeded to spend the day there, hanging around and waiting for the news to change, like wolves waiting for their injured prey to die. But as the days passed, the crowd that gathered there slowly grew more and more agitated, angry at the elves that barred their way. Unable to take their anger out on the soldiers, the air steadily became increasingly hostile towards any other elves that were in the vicinity, until eventually Llarell decided that as much as they wanted to get home quickly, there was no point in almost getting themselves killed doing so.

So they spent the days with Martha instead, helping her out around the home, and listening to her stories. In the morning they still went down to the port, and upon hearing the same old announcement ( _The port is closed!_ ), they’d head on back.

“What about the curse?” asked Gabilan one night, as he washed the dishes. “Will we be affected by it?”

Martha laughed, a soft, hooting sound. “Oh my, no. Didn’t you know, dear? Elves don’t get the Kanalis curse. You’re perfectly safe from it. Besides,” she added, “even if they could get it, it only starts to affect you once you’ve been living here for a little while.”

“Oh. But I’m not entirely elven.”

Martha paused in her folding of the tablecloth. Like many of the fabrics she owned, it was impeccably embroidered. “Hmm, well now. Kaspar lived with me for a time, but I don’t recall him ever being affected by it, and you must be, let’s see, an eighth-human, yes? So you’re even less human than him. I don’t think it’ll affect you.”

“I see.” Gabilan tried to be comforted by her words, but a little needle of doubt stuck itself at the back of his brain. What if the curse did affect him? What would he become? Would he still be able to work on the farm? What would mother and uncle think? Would the stormbirds try to attack him?

On the fourth morning there, Gabilan was awoken by the sound of quiet conversation. He lay there, the starched sheets stiff against his cheek, catching brief snatches. From the sound of it, it was Martha, and someone he didn’t know.

_“…several days now… concerned…”_

_“…don’t be ridiculous….manage quite well…”_

_“,,,,,Why … trust them?.....not our kind…”_

_“…..think you can come here…. Insinuating such things…. Neighbours…”_

_“….think of your safety….”_

_“…managed quite well….. good day.”_

There was the sound of a door shutting, then nothing. Gabilan went back to sleep.

“We’re off now,” said Gabilan, on the sixth morning.

“See you later!” said Llarell.

“Stay safe, dears!” said Martha. She gave them a little wave from the kitchen.

As Gabilan headed down the hall to the front door, he had the distinct feeling that something was off. He looked around. Nothing had changed since yesterday, and they were leaving at the same time that they always did, and yet… something wasn’t quite right. He sniffed. The house still had that same slightly cloying fragrance to it, but was it just his imagination, or was there a faint whiff of something else? He sniffed again. There. There it was again!

“Can you smell something?” he asked Llarell.

She sniffed, and her brow creased in thought. “Yeah, there does seem to be somethin’…”

Gabilan opened the door-

-and reeled back in disgust, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose. His eyes watered, and immediately his breakfast tried to force its way back up from the sheer stench. In all his years on the stormbird farm, he’d never smelt anything quite as repulsive or vile as this scent which now assaulted his nose. It was so powerful that he could taste in his mouth, utterly repugnant.

“What’s that?!” cried Llarell, her hands over her mouth.

There, on the doorstep, sat a pile of rotting fish.

“What’s happened, what’s happened?” Martha came flapping down the hall towards them, and stopped when she saw the mess. Her eyes darkened.

Gabilan’s vision swam as he stumbled into Llarell.

“Back inside, both of you,” ordered Martha.

Feeling too unwell to argue, the two elves obeyed, and spent the rest of the morning lying in bed, feeling horrendously sick. Martha cleaned up the mess, bleaching and scrubbing to such a degree that her doorstep looked like it’d just been freshly laid by the time she was finished.

On what would later turn out to be their final night there, Gabilan was awoken, not by quiet conversation, but by a tremendous crash. He rolled out bed, stumbling in an ungainly fashion as he hit the floor. An orange glow was coming from outside the window; he staggered over to it, sleepiness making him clumsy.

Off in the distance there was shouting and the glow of a fire, as grey smoke tinted with red billowed into the air. Below, people wandered the streets in their nightclothes, trying to ascertain what was going on, as others leaned out of their windows and yelled updates to them.

“Gabi?”

“Look.” He pointed out of the window.

Llarell cursed under her breath. “Does Martha know?”

Gabilan shook his head. “Should we wake her?”

Llarell considered it. Finally, she shook her head. “Nah, better let her sleep for now. If things get worse, then yeah, we wake her.”

For a while they watched the fire, the distant noises of chaos that accompanied it, and the people racing to get it under control. Eventually, it was extinguished, and the town went back to bed once more.

The next morning, the port was open again. A slightly subdued air hung about the place. Gabilan and Llarell bid Martha farewell, and when Llarell tried to give her some money, the old owl shooed it away.

“I’m glad you were able to stay for a while, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” She smiled at them.

“Then lemme write to you, it’s the least I can do. Maybe even send you some stormbird feathers; there’s nothin’ better for beddin’!” said Llarell.

Gabilan had never been a hugging sort of person, but he found himself hugging Martha. She was incredibly soft and frail beneath his arms.

“Take care, great-grandmother. It was nice to meet you.”

"You too, grandson. Perhaps we'll see each other again one day."

Shortly after that, they found themselves aboard an airship.

And the Kanalis trip came to an end.

/////

A month passed by. After all the rigmarole of obtaining the sarella cream and the hassle in getting it back, thankfully only two stormbirds died. It would have been perfect if none of them had died, but the little family was just glad that it’d only been three, rather than the entire flock.

One rainy morning, Gabilan padded into the kitchen. The light was low, and the rain pattered against the glass, giving the room a safe, cosy feel. Dattar was already there, finishing off the last of a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” said Gabilan.

“Mornin’,” nodded Dattar, then stopped, doing a small double-take.

Gabilan clattered about, spooning out some of the porridge that had been left in a pot on the oven. He turned and headed for the table, on to see Dattar leaning around, looking at him with an odd expression.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Dattar continued to stare, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.

“You feeling alright?” he asked, tentatively.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Gabilan seated himself at the table, a tad irritated. What in Gulfen was wrong with his uncle this morning? He began to eat.

Instead of ceasing his ogling, Dattar kept watching him, brows furrowed with concern. Gabilan stared back at him, irritation building.

“Llarelllll!” called Dattar.

“What?!” she bellowed back from the living room.

“There’s somethin’ I think you should see!”

There came the various scuffling and shifting sounds of someone getting to their feet, and the next minute, Llarell appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“What?” she said.

Dattar wordlessly pointed at Gabilan. She looked at him, and promptly did a double take. Gabilan’s irritation turned to crossness.

“What?!” he snapped. “Will one of you tell me what the matter is?!”

“Have you looked in the mirror this morning?” asked Dattar.

Gabilan’s brow furrowed. “No. Why?”

Llarell briefly disappeared, only to reappear the next moment holding a small hand mirror. Silently, she held it up to Gabilan. He looked, and almost jumped at what he saw.

His eyes were that of a bird of prey’s.

\---

“She said it didn’t affect elves! She _said_!”

“I know, I know. Look, is anythin’ else different, have you, I dunno, _changed_ anywhere else?”

“No! I looked!”

“Well, did you feel odd last night?”

“No! I felt fine! Oh Erlking above, I’m turning into a bird! A bird!”

“I’m back.”

“Oh thank goodness, Dat, did ya managed to find anythin’? Please tell me you were able to find somethin’.”

“There’s a doctor in Kanalis. He specialises in this sorta thing.”

“A bird, a bird! I’m going to be like Martha!”

“No, you’re not, we’re gonna fix this. Dat, I’m gonna take him.”

“Sis, are you crazy? After what happened last time? I thought you’d been killed!”

“Look at him, my boy is turning into a bird! I’m not just gonna sit around and let this happen without seeing a doctor!”

“But what if he won’t see you?”

“This isn’t supposed to happen, this isn’t supposed to happen, I was supposed to be safe from it, I was supposed to be _safe_!”

“I’m takin’ him, even if I hafta break down the door to get inside.”

“… Fine. But please, Lla, be careful. Don’t think I could stand to lose what little family I’ve got left.”

“We’ll be all right, you’ll see. We’ll stay safe. C’mon, Gabi.”

\---

As he sat in the waiting room, waiting for his name to be called, Gabilan could feel the eyes of the other patients upon him. He ignored them, feeling as if he was cocooned in his own little bubble. It was strange, once his initial panic had ended, that’d been it; he felt strangely numb about the whole affair, viewing it with a vague detachment, like it was just another change his body was going through, just like growing taller or his voice breaking. But how was the doctor going to react? Would he take one look at him, and turn them both away? Or would he begrudgingly see him? After all, Gabilan was an elf. He was the _enemy_.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, it was Gabilan’s turn.

Dr. Weston wasn’t at all what Gabilan was expecting. To him, the word ‘doctor’ implied some tall, faceless figure, working in one of Gulfen’s major cities, clean and crisp and smelling of chemicals and disinfectant. Dr. Weston however, was a somewhat plump, bespectacled man with sharp eyes, with mouse ears beginning to poke out from under hair that was beginning to take on a bluish tint. Despite all Gabilan’s worry, and to the doctor’s credit, he merely passed an unruffled eye over Gabilan when he was summoned in.

From his perch on a chair, Gabilan watched the doctor with a slightly guarded expression, Llarell seated next to him.

“I’m Doctor Weston,” the doctor introduced himself, shaking hands with both elves as if they were nothing more than regular people. “You must be Gabilan and Llarell. What seems to be the problem?”

Gabilan resisted the urge not to make a snide remark; didn't the doctor have _eyes_? “I’m turning into a bird.”

“I see.” Dr. Weston scribbled down a note. He regarded it thoughtfully. “And what do you think caused this?”

“I was here in Kanalis last month, buying some supplies with mother.”

“Hmm. Forgive me for asking the obvious, but you’re an elf, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Upon seeing Dr. Weston’s puzzled look, Llarell quickly cut in.

“Not entirely. Kas-, I mean, his father was a quarter human.”

“Ah. So that would mean that you carry human genetics within you. I understand now. Thank you.” Doctor Weston made another note. “This trip last month… Was it just a day affair, or did you stay in Kanalis for any length of time?”

“It was when the town was on lockdown due to that escaped criminal,” said Llarell.

“We ended up having to shelter with-" _a human relative_ "-a distant relative for a week,” Gabilan finished.

“I see, I see…”

Dr. Weston made a few more notes, and then proceeded to ask Gabilan more questions of a biological bent; some of the obvious, others less so. He listened to Gabilan’s heartrate, took a small blood sample, and peered into each of Gabilan’s eyes as he shone a light into them. After that, he made a few more notes.

“Can you just confirm something for me, Gabilan? Out of all your family, are you the only one with a mixed heritage?” asked Dr. Weston.

Something inside Gabilan rankled at the phrase, but he forced himself to answer calmly. “Yes. I’m the only one-” his head bobbed from side to side slightly as he tried to figure out how best to phrase what he wanted to say, “-of my kind.”

“I see.” Dr. Weston scribbled something down, then looked at Gabilan, peering over the top of his spectacles in such a way that it reminded him of the birds back home. There was a certain sort of _prepared_ quality to the expression on the doctor’s face; carefully neutral and guarded, but somehow familiar, as if he’d had to wear it many times.

“I am afraid it’s good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

Gabilan and Llarell exchanged a glance, before Gabilan responded.

“The bad news.”

There was a pause as his answer sat in the air. Then Dr. Weston leaned backward, causing the chair to creak audibly.

“Now, before I go on I must admit that this is the first time I’ve ever seen someone of,” he paused, gesturing vaguely in the air before continuing, “elf heritage be affected like this, but given how all your symptoms are corroborated by cases I’ve seen before, I’m afraid you are, in fact, cursed. Judging by your eye structure, you seem to be turning into some sort of bird of prey; if I had to be specific, I’d say some species of eagle.”

Gabilan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. _Cursed_. Strange, he’d partially been expecting it, but hearing it from a trained professional somehow brought back the sting once more.

“That’s the bad news,” continued Dr. Weston. “The good news, depending on how you wish to look at it, is that judging from what I’ve seen at this stage, I don’t think you’re going to make a full transformation. You’ll essentially remain as you are, but will exhibit some birdlike traits.”

“Such as?”

“Mmm, since this is the first case, I can’t really say, but looking at the transformation pattern of a typical curse patient, I’ll hazard a guess and say that you’ll probably grow a few feathers here and there, maybe gain a different texture to the skin on your hands and feet, perhaps even start to grow a beak. These are all hypothetical, of course, but they’re the most likely to occur without major parts of the body undergoing a full transformation.” Dr. Weston pulled out a chart that Gabilan didn't really see. “Essentially you’ll be going through a highly deaccelerated version of the curse. Normally it works by attacking the flesh rapidly over a span of time, but because of your unique genetic makeup, it’ll only get so far, and then run into a wall.”

Gabilan still had one question however. “But… why?” he asked. “Why is affecting me? I wasn’t properly residing here, only temporarily staying with someone.”

The doctor smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it’s a curse, and curses take whatever loopholes they can find. To the curse, staying here was as good as residing in the town proper.”

Gabilan fell silent.

"S’there any sorta cure?" Llarell suddenly piped up.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Ms. Llarell. There's a medicine which can slow its effects, but at the end of the day, that's all it does: slow it. Still, I could prescribe you some, if that's what you wanted,” he said, turning back to Gabilan.

Gabilan thought. A medicine that could slow the effects of the curse. He could take it, but what would be the point? He wasn't going to make a full transformation, and in any case, he'd just be prolonging the process. Furthermore, since the curse originated in the Kanalis area, the medicine would most likely only be available _in Kanalis_ , which would require a huge amount of faffing about when he needed a refill. And- _"we live here, in the mountains, where no one will tell us off for being like this."_ For a second, his father's words from long ago rang in his head. He lived tucked away in Ganon's Gate. Few people went there. Few people would see. His life was the bird farm. And if people did see, well, there were things he could wear. Ways of covering up.

"Well?" enquired Dr. Weston.

"I think I'll survive without it."

“You sure, Gabi?” asked Llarell. “S’this what you really wanna do?”

“Yes. Besides,” he said, “our family has never exactly been normal in the first place.”

\---

Once the appointment was over, and before leaving Kanalis, they dropped in on Martha. She quietly took in the sight of Gabilan’s eyes as they stood on her doorstep once more, and when they left, she gave him an extra-large hug. Gabilan found that she felt even more soft and frail in his arms than before.

“Will you be all right?” Martha whispered in his ear.

He pulled away so she could see, and nodded.

“Write to me if you need anything, anything at all! Even if it’s just to say that your feathers are itching! We birds of prey have to stick together, mind!” she said, with such strength and conviction that Gabilan couldn’t help but smile.

“I will,” he promised.

Later on, Gabilan would remember how she looked that day, as he Llarell waved goodbye: a little owl with fleck feathers of brown and white, her trademark shawl draped across her shoulders, beak curving into a smile as the late-afternoon sun lit her up with golden hues, framed by the doorway of her home.

When he got home, he wrote to Martha, spending almost a month in quiet expectation of her reply.

When a letter did come for him, it was written in a hand that he didn’t recognise, from someone he did not know, claiming to be a neighbour. It informed him, in the clipped, unsteady tones of someone unfamiliar with whoever they’re speaking to, that Martha had died.

Grief opened up in Gabilan like a void. He was alone in his heritage once more.

/////

Gabilan hurried inside, rain streaming off his coat. He hurriedly shrugged out of it, trying to shake as much of the water off over the doormat, rather than have it drip all over the hall. The rain outside wasn’t a storm, and he reckoned that it was unlikely to develop into one, but it was certainly doing its best to drench everyone and everything as thoroughly as possible. He sighed, more at the rigmarole of simply being alive and transitioning from one activity to the other, before hurrying down the hall to the kitchen, where it would no doubt be warmest. It felt like the cold was trying to permeate his bones – he needed a nice, hot drink to banish it.

Much to his surprise, his uncle was sitting at the kitchen table, two mugs of tant, a malted drink, steaming gently in front of him. A small look of puzzlement crossed Gabilan’s face. Wasn’t uncle usually checking produce right about now?

Dattar nodded to one of the free chairs, and slid a mug towards Gabilan as he sat.

Curious, Gabilan stayed silent, opting to take a sip of the hot drink as he waited for some sort of explanation. Dattar coughed, and crossed his arms as he leaned back in the chair. His gaze drifted over to the living room door, presently shut. Now that in itself was an oddity; the majority of the time, that door was open. Dattar’s gaze travelled to Gabilan, then to the ceiling, then down to the table and the mug which sat there. The silence grew heavy, the sound of the rain outside providing a staccato accompaniment.

Finally Dattar looked at Gabilan once more.

“Your mother’s got a visitor,” he said.

Gabilan remained silent, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Again, Dattar coughed, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

“Look, I dunno how much you know of this, but for the past few months, Lla’s been corresponding with someone.”

Well, that was nothing new. Letters were a common way for the bird-farming folk to contact one another and keep each other abreast of various developments in the bird world, be it a resurgence of a disease or a new crossbreed. But it was Dattar’s choice of words that gave Gabilan pause. Some _one_ , not ‘some people’ or ‘some folk’.

“He’s a bird farmer, like us,” Dattar assured him, as if that would somehow explain everything. “And, well, he and your mother have been gettin’ on really well, and they wanna give things a go. And maybe even merge the farms.” This last part was said in a rush, as if Dattar was pulling out a thorn and trying to get it over with.

Gabilan felt his face freeze, his mind going blank in a temporary state of shock.

“What?!” he finally managed to blurt out. There was the squeal and thump of a chair tipping over, and it was a moment before he realised that it was his own seat that’d taken a tumble and he was now on his feet.

Dattar quickly threw up his hands. “We wouldn’t be goin’ anywhere – they’d be comin’ to _us_. It- it’s more like a marriage of convenience.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced.

“Marriage,” said Gabilan. But there was not as much fire behind it as his uncle had evidentially suspected.

Internally his mind was awhirl with all the possibilities and futures such an action would bring, and a few seconds passed before he managed to notice that his uncle was speaking again.

“Their farm is goin’ under, and Erlking along knows how we could use with a few more hands. Plus we’d be able to expand a bit, and they’d be bringing their birds too, and, well, it was Llarell’s idea.” Dattar said those final words with a certain sort of resignation and finality.

Gabilan moved to sit, only just remembering in time that his chair was on the floor. With a certain measured quality to his movements, he set it upright. Sat once more. He was quiet as he thought. Somehow, the idea didn’t have quite as much bite to it anymore, looking at it through the lens of _helping the farm_. Yes, when looked at like that, it was less like a personal relationship, and more like an acquisition of assets, akin to buying a new piece of machinery. More birds would mean building expansions, and they’d have to check the other farm’s records and ledgers for the heritage and any sort of defects that came from those bloodlines, and they’d have to take into account the extra expense before any profit could even begin to be made… Still, one question remained unanswered.

“Why you, uncle? You isn’t mother telling me this herself?” asked Gabilan.

Dattar took a sip of his drink. “She wanted to, believe me. And she’s probably gonna tell you all this soon with different words, but we...” Dattar trailed off and pulled a face. “We weren’t sure how you’d react. Whether you’d be upset about your father. She thought you’d be fine, but I wasn’t so certain, so I’ve sorta gone behind her back.”

Gabilan’s expression twisted into a quizzical frown. His father? Out of all the things he had considered in this equation, Kaspar was not one of them.

“Why should I be upset about father?”

Dattar fell silent. “I guess her bein’ with a new man and your father’s memory and all.” He shook his head. “Nevermind.”

The click of the living room door startled them both. A second later, Llarell had poked her head through. She took in the scene, brows briefly drawing together at the sight of her brother and son, before beckoning to Gabilan.

“Gabi, come here. There’s someone I want you to meet, yeah?”

\---

His name was Newman, and Gabilan never quite caught where his farm was exactly, other than ‘somewhere south of Valcor’. He was balding, and a widower. He’d been married twice; the first one had ended in divorce, the second one, death. He had three children, two boys and a girl: Bale, Brecon, and Secchi all younger than Gabilan. He’d been warned not to ask about Gabilan’s eyes. His build was that of farmers everywhere: solid. He hadn’t always worked in agriculture, instead only becoming one when he got married for the second time.

It was in this manner that Gabilan assembled facts about his mother’s new beau, drawing them together and categorising them in little chunks in the ledger of his mind; like he was looking over the specifics and schematics for a piece of machinery, rather than having to adapt to a potential new family member. It was an odd way of looking at things, he knew, but Gabilan somehow found it easier on the mind that way, like it was a protection from the reality that was about to be dropped on him.

To his unexpected disappointment, things went well between Llarell and Newman. The merger was going to be made. Over the months that followed, a steady trickle of assets from Newman’s farm flowed in, mainly birds and tools, but eventually ending with Newman and his children.

Gabilan did his best, working on the farm as normal, helping shift things around to make space for the new stormbirds whilst old buildings slowly ballooned out with expansions here and there. It was odd really, Gabilan had felt so certain that he was all right with Newman and his brood coming; he had assured himself that there was nothing to worry about. It was for the good of the farm, and the farm was his life. But then Gabilan would catch his mother holding hands with Newman, or giving him a look that he’d only ever seen given to Kaspar, or slinging her arm across his shoulders in a way that was more than companionable, and Gabilan would get the distinct feeling that something old and precious was being ruined and forgotten about.

For the sake of the farm, he ignored it and pushed it down to a place where it couldn’t cause any harm. And before he knew it, the year had gone round and the merger had finished. The family of three was now a family of seven, plus one dog.

/////

A year passed, and the novelty and strangeness of having extra elves around the farm wore off.

One morning, Gabilan awoke with a furious itching in his cheeks. He looked around, slightly disorientated; the light in the room was all wrong and there was a slightly unreal quality to the air, making everything feel off. Around him, his step-siblings were still quietly snoozing away in their beds. Gabilan grimaced, teeth grinding together. Did someone put straw in his pillow? _Again?_ It was a favoured prank among his newfound siblings, especially when it came to him. They treated it like a challenge: _who can get a rise out of Gabilan?_ Who was the most likely suspect this time. Bale? Secchi? Maybe even Brecon? Gabilan narrowed his eyes. No, Brecon would never. With a sigh, he reached for his pillow, ready to begin the tedious task of picking straw from it.

To his surprise, it was smooth. There wasn't as much as a wisp of straw anywhere, not even the scent of the stuff! But if there wasn't any straw, then _why was his face itching so_? Oho, it was an awful sort of itch, prickling and twitching, like something was scurrying back and forth across his face, prodding and poking, covering his cheeks and even rising up his nose to his forehead. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was one of _those_ itches, where upon being scratched, it paradoxically provides relief and itches _even_ more. With an aggravated huff, Gablian sat up, rubbing both palms across his face in an attempt at some sort of cooling relief.

It didn’t work.

Fantastic. Quietly Gablian slipped out of bed, casting a flat look at his step-siblings as he did so. They were sleeping, faces relaxed, and so therefore looking completely innocent of all crimes.

He padded along to the tiny bathroom. There, he splashed water on his face; perhaps there were traces some sort of irritant on it, and _that_ was what was causing the itch. The water was icy, as usual. The farm's plumbing was always reliably cantankerous first thing in the morning, the water never properly heating up until around midday. For a moment, the sheer _shock_ of the cold water provided a moment of relief, the cold sensation overriding the itch...

… And then all too quickly it’d returned, even worse than before.

Gabilan checked his face in the slightly-grubby mirror, tilting it this way and that. It was slightly red, scored where he' been scratching, but other than that there was nothing, no injury, no rash, no mark. There was only one other thing it could be.

The curse was progressing a little more.

Inwardly, his heart sank a little at the possibility. Then he shook himself. Whatever happened, he was hidden from view. As long as he could still work on the fine, everything ‘would be golden’, as Setton sometimes put it.

Still, thanks to the ice-cold water, he was well and truly awake. No point in going back to bed; he might as well get started with the day’s work.

\---

All through the day, his face itched, and Gabilan found himself going through his work like one lost in a dream. He felt enveloped in a bizarre aura of anticipation, waiting to see what the result of the itching would be. What would happen? Would he awake the next morning and find… what? Scales? Feathers? An entire beak, sprouting from his face? Or was it something much more mundane, a product of regular elven biology? A disease of sorts? An allergy that’d suddenly developed? A dermal infection?

He tried his best not to scratch, he really did, but time and time again he would pause in some task, only to find his hand had risen of its own accord and was raking away at his face.

“You’ve been scratching your face a lot today,” said Secchi, that evening at dinner.

“Yeah,” added Bale. “Are you coming down with something?

Gabilan made a noncommittal noise from where he was carefully dicing some poultry. He looked up, only for his eyes to meet across the room with Llarell’s. For a heartbeat, an unspoken conversation passed between them.

“Secchi, can you pass me that knife?” said Llarell. “Ta. How d’you think our feed stock is looking? The farmer down in Rendon is apparently paddin’ his stuff out with grain from Ilra, says it helps the birds’ bones, but I dunno…”

Gabilan felt a certain amount of tension drain from his body as the conversation was neatly diverted away from him, instead turning to the various bird feeds that were available, and the pros and cons of each one.

That night, he lay awake for far longer than usual, eyes glowing in the darkness like two stars in the sky.

\---

Gabilan stared at his reflection in the mirror. Nerves had woken him far too early, spurring him into a wakefulness that would not permit sleeping again; as a result he looked slightly haggard. That wasn’t what drew his attention though. Tentatively, he raised a hand and gently touched his face.

Pinfeathers. They traced a merry little path across the top of one cheek, passing up and along the bridge of his nose and down over the other cheek. A tiny row of white spikes.

Feathers. Actual feathers. Growing out of his face. He poked the end of one, letting it dig into the pad on his finger. For such a small thing, it was fairly pointed. He carefully pinched it, and tugged. Immediately he yelped, wincing as a spike of pain bloomed in his face. Ack, that had most definitely been a bad idea. Gabilan’s hand dropped to the side, and he studied his face a whole in the mirror, tilting his head this way and that as the light played over it from different angles. First eagle eyes, now feathers. He was like a child’s drawing, where they had slapped extraordinary features onto a normal elf without any thought for how it would mesh with existing flesh. What was next? Wings?

“Gabi?”

At the sound of the voice, Gabilan spun round with such force that he wrenched his neck. It twinged angrily in protest, sending a bolt of white-hot pain up into his skull.

Llarell stood in the doorway, one hand resting on its elderly frame. Concern was written all over her features.

Gabilan gestured vaguely at his face.

“It’s the curse,” he said quietly, the words coming out more tired and hopeless than he’d intended.

In a couple of near-silent steps, Llarell had crossed the bathroom. She took Gabilan’s face in her hands, eyes quickly scanning left to right, taking in the new pinfeathers. The next second she had pulled him into a hug.

“Oh, Gabi…”

\---

Over the next couple of days, the pinfeathers continued to grow until Gabilan’s cheekbones were covered with a soft down. He had never had much luck with growing a beard - his came out short and scrubby, and generally looked horrible - but now it was as if one had grown, albeit in completely the wrong place.

He could hardly hide it from the rest of his new family, but perhaps Newman had said something to them, because none of his step-siblings commented, even if they did stare at him with wide eyes when he eventually made his way to the kitchen.

In the end, he trimmed the feathers. They grew back of course, because curses are nothing if resilient beasts, but the moment they’d returned, then Gabilan was at it again, leaning toward the mirror, carefully snipping them away. And again. And again. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but Gabilan quickly learned that it was much more preferable than plucking them outright, or worse, trying to remove them whilst they were growing. _That_ particular attempt had ended with him shrieking, blood pouring from his face as an alarmed Newman barrelled into the bathroom. He’d skidded to a halt, face like ice as he clapped eyes on his stepson; a face full of feathers, screaming unholy murder as blood ran down his face. He’d gaped, before disappearing and hastily returning with Dattar in tow, who’d helped staunch the bleeding.

In the end, the feathers on his face just became another routine part of life.

/////

The scent of cooking filled the kitchen, accompanied by the clink and rattle of many hands at work. Tonight’s dish was elba, a potato-based meal known for being both filling and simple to make. As he chopped a leek, Gabilan’s mind half-wandered; they’d made this dish so many times before that his hands were running on autopilot. Kip wandered up to him, affixing him with a pleading doggy stare. When it became apparent that Gabilan wasn't going to yield anything, Kip wandered over to Brecon, who immediately slipped him a titbit from his pocket.

“Where’s Dattar?” Secchi suddenly piped up.

“He’ll be in in a mo,” said Llarell from her position at the counter.

“Is it the chipsy hen again?” asked Newman. He was peeling a bowl full of potatoes.

“Yeah.”

“Ach, that hen…”

The conversation died away. Gabilan began chopping the next leek. A comfortable feeling of domesticity hung in the air, blanketing everything and making it all feel okay. Sure, there was a hen who kept coming down with chipsy, and they would inevitably have to make a decision about whether to euthanise her, or risk sending her off to the war, but that was something that could be determined at a later date. Besides, if anyone could save a bird, then Dattar could.

_THOOM!_

A soft rumble ran through the room. Gabilan paused in his chopping. Odd. He waited for a heartbeat, before resuming, shrugging to himself. Probably just some snow dislodging off a mountain peak. It happened sometimes.

**_THOOM!_ **

This time the kitchen _shook_ ; the floor jarring beneath Gabilan as the table rattled away, everything clinking and rattling for a fraction of a second.

“What,” said Llarell slowly, “was _that_?”

In the distance, there was the sound of a door slamming open, followed by the sound of crashing and running footsteps threading through the house towards them. A second later, Dattar burst into the kitchen. His face looked pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Fire!” he shouted. “Fire!”

Gablian shot to his feet, chair toppling over from the force. The birds!

“Where?!” said Newman.

“Out there!” Dattar pointed back the way he’d come.

“Dat, _where?_ The barn, the stables? What’s ablaze?!” said Llarell, grabbing a bucket from under the sink.

“No, no, nothing’s on fire yet! But we’ve gotta get out now, it’s almost here! It’s a _fire whirl_!” Dattar finished, voice pitching up to a yell.

There was a mad scramble as everyone bolted outside, urged on by a frantic Dattar, Kip dancing and barking among between their feet. They shout out into the night-

And saw it.

A great pillar of fire, spiralling towards the farm. Even at this distance the heat was incredible, and Gablian could feel sweat beginning to run down his back. The air was filled with smoke and embers, and for a heartbeat all any of them could do was stare. The noise was almost deafening, a great hissing and roaring of flame, with that thunderous pounding sandwiched in-between. But something was off. There was something strange about the way the fire whirl moved, an oddly human quality to it. Almost like a gait. Gabilan peered, and as he stared, a shape gradually began to reveal itself. It was...

"A stonekeeper! It's a stonekeeper!" he shouted.

At the sound of his voice, everyone jolted out of their stupor.

"A stonekeeper?" Llarell and Newman shared a look. "Release the birds. Now!"

Even before the words had left her mouth, Gabilan was racing towards the stables. Footsteps from behind told him that the others were following. He ran through the stable, flinging open stall doors, shouting and waving his arms. The stormbirds, already antsy from the approaching fire, took the hint, bursting from the stalls with a great clamorous squawking. All the while the air grew hotter as the stonekeeper approached, the shaking of the ground growing stronger with each footstep. Sweat streamed off Gabilan, as the heat sapped his strength. Staying upright grew increasingly more difficult, as the ground shook with the force of a minor earthquake.

"That's the last of them!" someone yelled. "Out! Out! Everybody out!"

With an almost superhuman effort, Gabilan flung himself from the stables, the rest of his family scattering on ahead. He ran, but then despite everything, twisted around to look.

The stonekeeper was almost upon the farm, a great, flaming foot rising ponderously into the air, and Gabilan's eyes automatically completed its trajectory.

 _The farmhouse_.

_No._

The place where he, his mother, uncle, and grandmother had grown up. The building that his great-grandparents had built. Several lifetimes worth of memories, along with an assortment of ephemera and knicknacks, packed into four walls.

"Brother! We must leave, now!" exclaimed Secchi. She grabbed Gabilan's arm, tugging him along after her as she ran. He didn't resist, and a second later, turned away from the scene.

Down the track they fled, passing by Dattar, who counted everybody as they went by. Since Secchi and Gabilan were the last to leave, and satisfied that everyone was accounted for, he joined them in the flight.

A second later there was an incredible, indescribable noise, so loud and terrible that it was as if the very world was ending.

And for the little family of elves of who lived on the farm, it had.

\---

By some stint or cruel miracle, the village survived unscathed. The stonekeeper contented himself with destroying every inch of the farm to such a degree that when Gabilan went back several days later up to survey what remained, there was nothing but blackened ground and thick piles of ash scattered here and there. Once the destruction was complete, the walking inferno had suddenly stared off into the mountains. Slowly he had turned. Stared a little more, like a dog hearing a note too high for human ears. Then, with his thunderous footsteps trailing behind him, the stonekeeper had left. From their perch on the mountainside, the villagers heaved a sigh of relief, but it was only once the last of the heat had gone, and the glow of that terrible walking inferno had faded completely, that they cautiously dared ventured back down, the ashen-faced family in tow. They were like a spot of oil in water, surrounded on all sides, but somehow separate from everyone else, despite Setton clinging to Llarell as they walked. Muttered conversation died in their presence, replaced by hollow-sounding condolences that were spoken in voices that were slightly too loud and too hopeful.

For the second time in his life, Gabilan felt coated in a thick layer of numbness, walking on autopilot. But unlike the previous time, the numbness was confined to the outside. Inside, fury writhed and raged. He did not _burn_ or _blaze_ with anger, no, the stonekeeper had _burned_ and _blazed_ with a brightness that lit up the night sky, and he would not be associated with that filth in any way. Instead, he felt that his anger was more like hot coals, dark and smouldering, patiently waiting for someone to come and foolishly touch, and _then_ they'd be sorry. He glowered at the spot where the stonekeeper had vanished, thoughts of vengeance roiling back and forth through his head like a half-formed sea. Their farm had been everything, both home and work, a solid source of income, a place of safety. The birds they'd bred had been _the best_ , a solid result brought about by years of hard work and careful breeding. They'd even received a letter of commendation once, from some captain or other, congratulating them for their ' _exceedingly fine specimens of birds, a most reliable ally in these discordant times!_ ' And in the space of half-an-hour, all of that had been destroyed.

Gabilan clenched his fists. Everyone knew about stonekeepers; they were integral to Alledia's history. You could no more live there and not know about them, than live in the sea and not know about water. But to those living in the mountains, they felt more like a modern myth of sorts, or a story from far away; people who were gifted incredible abilities and could do wonderous things thanks to magical stones. Everyone knew the supposed dark ending to these tales as well: a loss of control that yielded a nigh-unstoppable monster. Until tonight they had only been a dream of a tale, something to frighten the children with on dark nights.

But not anymore.

Gabilan glowered as he marched down the trail.

They would pay for this.

By hook or by crook, the Stonekeepers would pay.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And that’s chapter two! The headcanon, which I’ve gleefully stolen from Laelaloo, is that Gabilan is a little bit human, and wears a mask to cover the feathers growing on his face. :D There’s one more chapter to go, see you soon!


	3. The Talons That Catch The Prey

The town of Melet was too large to be called a town, but not big enough to be called a city. It sat at the base of Ganon’s Gate on Gulfen’s side, and was only notable because of the large metal refinery that clung to the mountain like a lizard. This refinery meant that Melet was almost constantly blanketed with an industrial odor, but the locals claimed that you got used to it after a while. Other than that, it was completely unremarkable. The folk were friendly enough, in a bland sort of way, and despite being so close to the border _and_ having a factory to boot, it somehow avoided the eye of the war.

Gabilan hated it.

He tromped down the street, heavily wrapped up because he “felt the cold”, a lie which grated on him, and felt as out of place as a stormbird in a hen house. As if on autopilot, his gaze drifted to the trail that lead up into the mountains, snaking up and away until it wound round a peak and was obscured from view. Up there lay home. The very thought of it sent a pang through Gabilan’s heart, one that he tried to supress. Every day as he walked back to his accommodation, he would look at that trail. And every day he would be filled with the same longing to return, a feeling that he tried to quash.

There was no place for them there. Not anymore.

Setton had sheltered them, putting them up in the guest rooms at her pub, and giving them meals on the house. But it wasn’t an arrangement that could last, and the family knew it more and more with every day that ticked by.

Living in the mountains meant existing in a delicate state of balance. Everyone had their own roles, everyone had their jobs. It was a static sort of world, where work was like a family heirloom, passed down through the generations. Suddenly having one of those roles wiped out, with a family of seven now jobless, well, that just wasn’t doable. There was no space for them, no spare jobs that could be taken. Simply put, there was no way for them to survive up there anymore. It was with heavy hearts that the Gabilan and his family left the mountains, bidding the elves they’d known and loved farewell. Privately, Setton and Llarell had embraced each other and wept in a way that Gabilan had never seen them do – had not _meant_ to see them do, passing by a doorway when it happened. It made his hatred for the Stonekeepers all the greater.

It was a long, arduous trudge of a journey down to Melet, hitching a ride down on a cart from the village for part of the way, and walking the rest. Melet welcomed them, not with open arms, more with a critical eye and a shrug that said there were jobs and homes for anyone willing to work.

Newman and Dattar found jobs at the metal refinery plant. Brecon found work in one shop, Secchi in another. Bale worked as a cleaner, Llarell as a delivery person. And Gabilan? Through a stroke of fortune, he managed to find work as a courier, criss-crossing the town, carrying messages and parcels.

Not that it offered much in the way of opportunity. Gabilan frowned as the conversation he’d had earlier replayed in his mind once more.

_“I can deliver it, just give me a chance!”_

_Across the desk from him, his boss, a willowy elf by the name of Yole, had shook her head. “Gabilan, I can’t. Traymer is too far away for an on-foot delivery.”_

_“It’s not that great a distance. I could easily make it there and back within the time limit,” said Gabilan. “Please, Yole.”_

_Again, Yole had shook her head. She stood up from behind her desk and leaned forward, resting her knuckles on its surface. The dust-filled sunlight streamed around her. “No. Unless you procure some transport, I can’t let you do this delivery. It’ll have to be someone else.”_

_“But-!” he started to protest._

_Yole’s expression turned cross, her tone severe. “Gabilan. The answer is no. It’s transport or nothing.” She nodded at the door in a clear indication of dismissal._

_Gabilan whipped around, seething with resentment, and stalked out_.

And there was the knuckle of the problem: they didn’t have money which could be put towards anything as luxurious as _transport_ , a fact that Gabilan felt painfully aware of as he came into sight of their new home: a shabby set of rented accommodation buildings. They were just about keeping themselves afloat as it was. Anger at the Stonekeeper smouldered in him, a near-constant companion nowadays. Gabilan paused at the foot of the stairs, and cast a glance at the mountains once more. Still, if this evening went well, then transport wouldn’t be an issue anymore; he would be able to take the better-paying jobs, making deliveries over longer distances. It was with some reluctance that he dragged his gaze from the mountains and headed upstairs.

Kip greeted him joyfully, bouncing around and scrabbling at his legs with the air of one who’s been separated from their loved ones for years, instead of hours. Gabilan paused to give his fur a quick, hard ruffle, before casting his gaze around the main room of their home. No one. He peeked in the bedroom that they all now had to squeeze into; was anyone in there, sleeping in preparation for a night shift? But like the main room it too, was empty. Gabilan smiled to himself. Good, that would make things a bit easier.

He took the chance to wrap up warmly – properly, this time, as opposed to covering his pinfeathers, packed a small bag, and headed out once more.

The mountains were beckoning.

/////

The wind tugged at Gabilan as he perched behind a rock; it seeped into the gaps in his clothing, chilling those areas with a vengeance. He ignored it as best he could, huddling in closer upon himself. From his crouching position, he peered down at the ledge below. Upon it sat a stormbird, a male, Gabilan reckoned, judging from the feathers on the bird’s neck. The bird trilled softly, his head tilting this way and that, and occasionally re-fluffing his feathers against the cold. A few iridescent feathers still clung to him, telling a further story. A young male that had almost finished going through his first breeding season – unsuccessfully, since he was on his own. By this time, all the hens would have chosen a mate, and the pair would be assembling a rather haphazard nest together on the most distant peak they could find. It was far too late for this stormbird to have any sort of luck, but his loss was Gabilan’s gain: the chemicals that dampened down his territorial instincts enough for him to act amicably towards any females were still pumping around his system, making him more willing to sit and listen out for the cries of hens, rather than immediately fight.

Narrowing his eyes, Gabilan gingerly began to edge over the rock. This was going to have to be one miracle of a jump, straight onto the stormbird itself. If he misjudged it, then at best he’d probably end up with a few bruises and no stormbird. At worst, those wings could give him such a clout that he’d be knocked clean off the ledge, and… well.

‘ _Should’ve left a note,_ ’ thought Gabilan, not for the first time that trip.

He paused to check the thing he was neatly palming. Carrying it like this was not making this part of the endeavour any easier, but if he wanted to end this whole venture without dying, then it was vital.

He was almost there, in the perfect position to leap. Closer, closer…

His foot caught against the rock, scraping against it with such a noise that Gabilan could’ve sworn that it reverberated around the mountains. The stormbird’s head snapped around. No! Panicked, Gabilan didn’t think.

“Hrrkraaak!”

He coughed out the harsh cry of a hen stormbird seeking a mate, and launched himself forward. The stormbird froze for a second at the noise. It was near-enough to sound like a stormbird proper, giving the male pause.

Gabilan’s aim was off.

He half landed on the bird, knees hitting the ledge with a tremendous jarring sensation. Pain shot through them, but he pushed through it. In the next second he had locked his arms and legs around the stormbird, pinning one of its wings with the weight of his body. It shrieked and tried to unfurl its wings to fly away, but was unable to. The trapped wing writhed underneath him, threatening to buck him off. Gabilan clung on like a spider in a hurricane, half dreading the next step. The stormbird’s head swung around, eyes full of vengeance, thoughts clear: _A male! A male! Attack! Attack! Drive away from my female!_

Gabilan pulled his hand in front of his head just in time, sacrificing grip for safety, and hunching his neck inwards as he half-buried his face in feathers. The stormbird’s sharp beak sliced across his fist, a wave of pain erupting. Without thinking, Gabilan shot his injured fist upwards. It connected with the bird’s head and sent near agonising pain through his hand anew. Infuriated, the stormbird screamed at him, a noise that threatened to burst his eardrums. Gabilan shot his other hand forward, directly into the bird’s mouth, shoving something down its throat. The next moment the beak had closed on his forearm. Gabilan screamed. Half-mad with pain, he struck forward again with his injured hand, smacking the bird in the eye. It squawked, releasing his now-bleeding arm.

With Gabilan’s body no longer holding down its wing, the stormbird flapped. But something was wrong, for there was none of the power in the gesture. It tried to scream again, but the noise came out like a croak. It swayed and tottered. Then started to fall. Despite the pain lacing through him, Gabilan manged to drag himself out of the way of the collapsing stormbird. It hit the ledge with a remarkably soft sound, and was still.

Gabilan felt himself slump, all the air leaving his body as he lay on the ledge. He’d done it. He wasn’t dead. The stormbird hadn’t escaped. But Erlking’s _teeth_ , that bird had certainly tried its best at both those things. A moan dragged its way out of his mouth as he sat upright, his whole body protesting. He pulled up both trouser legs, and was greeted with two identical bruises in shades of blue and purple, trailing up his shins to his knees. At least they weren’t broken, but they hurt like merry hell. Bleeding, he dragged himself over to the stormbird, and pulled open its beak. He ran a wary eye over its throat. The airway looked clear. Good. It’d collapsed because the soporific medicine he’d jammed down its throat was doing its job, not because he’d accidentally asphyxiated it. Gabilan paused, gingerly checking the stormbird over; it’d gone down remarkable quickly, and he hoped that he hadn’t accidentally overdosed it. The medicine was a common one among stormbird farmers, easily made and mainly used to calm the birds when they were particularly antsy in the breeding season. The more aggressive males would spend most it asleep, waking in a much calmer mood.

Satisfied that the stormbird wasn’t majorly injured, Gabilan hefted himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness rushed through his head, causing him to sway, but then it’d passed.

A grim smile split his features.

Finally.

Transport.

\---

A shocked silence descended when Gabilan finally dragged himself home. His wounds burned with a fire that hinted at infection, his strength had all but deserted him, and he felt curiously lightheaded. It was all he could do to nudge open the door. He cut a gaunt figure, standing in the doorway like he’d emerged from an ancient tale of long-dead monsters. Llarell was first to her feet.

“Gabilan, what happened?!”

He opened his mouth to respond, and his strength promptly deserted him. He crumped in a heap to the floor.

\---

Gabilan slipped back into consciousness, once piece at a time. First he was aware that he was he was suddenly awake, sensations and conscious thought trickling through his mind once more. Next came the sensation of softness pressing in on all sides, and the curious off feeling that he wasn’t quite upright. A steady, aching pain was next in the queue, long and languid, biting particularly hard in several places. The scent of metal filled the air, giving it a distinctly industrial tang. He cracked open his eyes, feeling an epoch’s worth of sleep caked there, and was greeted with the sight of his family’s bedroom, more akin to a sardine can than anything else. Someone had placed him in the only bed, instead of on any of the rather tattered futons that took up most of the floor space.

Wincing and doing a very good impression of an engine venting steam, Gabilan slowly sat up. He listened, straining to hear any trace of a noise that would point to the prescience of another. The minutes ticked by. Nothing, not a sound from within. Everyone must be out at work. Tiredness suddenly descended on Gabilan anew; he lay back down and went back to sleep.

\---

Later, when he awoke once more, it was evening, his family in attendance. Together, they filled him in on what he had not been awake to experience. He had been asleep for five days, like one who was dead. The wound on his forearm had become infected, the gash on his hand had not, and both had required stitches. As he ate a little soup, Gabilan inspected both. His hand appeared to be healing nicely, as did his arm, though the latter was tinged with an angry pink. It was an unspoken certainty that both would scar. It was also an unspoken certainty that they were blatantly the work of a stormbird, something which Llarell and Dattar both had words to say on the matter.

“A _stormbird!_ ” Llarell had exclaimed, once Gabilan had managed to butt into the joint tirade enough to explain. “You traipsed into the mountains an’ almost got yourself killed for a _stormbird_?”

She’d sworn then, a colourful string of expletives that went on for well over a minute without repeating, featuring fifty-seven mentions of the Erlking and his various bodily parts in what seemed like an endless creative assortment of oaths. Dattar had positively gone pale, and Gabilan likewise.

“I’m doing it for our family, mother,” he said, once she’d finished. “It’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

Llarell had looked unimpressed.

And when Gabilan walked into work a few days later, Yole was wearing the same expression. As he approached, she regarded him like he was walking across a row of parcels all marked ‘fragile’.

“I thought you died,” she eventually said. She regarded Gabilan for a moment more, then she nodded to a stack of outgoing parcels with a sharp jerk of her head. “Go on then. And don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he said, and meant it.

/////

For years to come, the memory of telling Yole that he had transport remained a fixed point of joy in Gabilan’s mind. In truth, it wasn’t that extraordinary of an event, but the freedom it afforded him and the opportunity for better pay filled the entire affair with sunshine.

It’d been two months since his misadventure in the mountains. As Gabilan walked to the warehouse depo in the early morning light, he felt filled with a resilient sort of triumph. The stormbird, now christened Silet, was just about trained.

Yole was there, as always when he walked in, pen behind her ear, clipboard in hand, her usual sour frown on her face. Three other elves were milling around her, couriers, waiting for assignments.

“I’ve got six packages to go to the Likmet,” she said as Gabilan walked over. She looked up, eyes scanning those assembled. “Let’s see-“

Gabilan saw his chance.

“I can do it,” he said. Yole fixed him with a diffident stare, so he continued. “I have my own transportation now, one which isn’t my feet. Likmet shouldn’t be a problem.”

Yole still looked sceptical, but she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Fine. Gabilan for the Likmet delivery.” She scribbled something down on the clipboard. “Right, moving on…”

As Gabilan turned away, heading to pick up the parcels, internally he felt the glow of success.

\---

It was like a door had been opened. No longer was Gabilan confined to the borders of Melet, criss-crossing the large town with a sack full of deliveries; now he could soar across the sky, a much larger cargo meticulously strapped down on his stormbird’s back. Each town he visited was a new experience, and each was bursting with additional freelance deliveries which he could take on. Stengard, Valcor, Chomley, Illret, Mimas – the list of places was endless. The sky was his road, a wide, open expanse that took him all across Gulfen. Sure, it meant that he was away from home and his family for longer and longer periods of time, but he soothed that thorn of a problem with every packet of money he sent back home. However being on the road all the time meant there wasn’t as much opportunity to keep track of his feathers, and the wind was a powerful enemy, blowing any loose clothing around. Slowly, he stopped trimming the down that covered his cheeks, and took to wearing a mask.

All in all, he found solitude suited him well.

/////

_Dear Gabi,_

_It’s your mother here! How are you doing? You eating well? Is the bird giving you any trouble? It was a good choice, going with a cock stormbird. He’ll be less temperamental than if you’d gone with a hen, not as likely to try and keep building a nest. Ha! Newman just read that bit and told me that even in my letters, I’m still a farmer. Can’t deny the truth! Anyway, where are you now? We all miss you and look forward to seeing you when you get back from this delivery._

_Write soon!  
Your mother, Llarell_

/////

The rain lashed against Gabilan’s back with unforgiving force, thousands of tiny blows raining upon him under the guise of ‘weather’. He huddled down against Silet – a moot point really, since he’d already hunkered down as far he could to the point where his torso was practically laying perpendicular across the stormbird’s back.

Shading his eyes from the stinging torrent, he risked a glance upwards. Dark clouds, thick and heavy, blanketed the sky in every direction, resembling a quilt done solely in shades of grey. Automatically, he swiped a hand across his eyes to clear the excess water there, but he might as well have been looking upwards into a waterfall. The sky had been perfectly clear when he’d set out; the various forecasts he’d checked for the route he planned were favourable. The only thing that any of them had warned against were some strong winds over Tanter, but Gabilan had hardly considered that an issue as his journey was going to barely skirt around that area. Then what in Gulfen was this, this ocean’s worth of water that now assaulted him?

Gabilan swore under his breath, and quickly checked behind him. There were his deliveries, carefully strapped down. Despite the clear sky earlier he’d had the forethought to wrap them in a tarpaulin, but at this point it might as well have been a lace tablecloth, the rain having rendered it completely sodden. Instead of protecting the various parcels and letters, it was now acting like a very wet insulator, ensuring that they stayed well and truly drenched. Dragging his gaze forward, Gabilan was just in time to hear an ominous creaking and popping from behind; the elderly rope protesting.

Silet’s wings were beating furiously, exertion present in every flap. Small tremors juddered through his body, the additional weight of the water slowly sapping his strength. He cried out, a long trilling sound that Gabilan recognised as _distress_.

“I know, I know,” he said, pushing a free hand into the sopping feathers.

‘ _Bad things always come in twos_ ’, his mother used to say, and if that was the case, then disaster had decided to double-up on this occasion; between the terrible weather, the sopping deliveries, the rope that was threatening to break, and Silet’s creeping fatigue, they were well and truly in the soup.

He tried to scan the land ahead, but the sheer amount of rain cast a veil over everything. Gritting his teeth, Gabilan tried again, forcing himself to really peer. Even with the eyes of an eagle, it was a trial, but there! Ahead of them! Through the mist, far below he could just make out a vague expanse of green; probably a field or open land, by his reckoning. It wasn’t ideal and it was going to be a bird’s claw of a landing, but it was better than staying up in weather that was threatening to turn into a storm.

Cautious relief lit itself up in Gabilan, as he nudged Silet into a careful descent.

And then several things happened at once.

With a terrific noise, the rain broke into a storm proper, whipping up a crosswind that slammed into Gabilan and Silet. With a scream, Silet was sent spiralling, balance shot to hell. The next second there was a snapping noise that carried a certain sense of finality about it and then they were tilting the other way from a sudden lack of weight; Gabilan looked up just in time to see his deliveries whirling away into the sky, carried off my the wind.

“No!” burst from his mouth involuntarily.

But there was no time to focus on the lost deliveries now; for he and Silet were beginning to drop like a stone, well and truly crashing.

Things seemed to move in a choppy, gauze-covered blur: they were falling - he was shifting his weight to try and help Silet stabilise - the ground rushing closer and closer by the second - Silet was screaming, his wings flapping madly – they’d done it! Level once more, but still dropping much too fast – forces pulling at him every which way as he tried to angle Silet into a curve to try and lessen their descent speed – the ground the ground THE GROUND-

\---

Face down, Gabilan came to with a large amount of grass and mud plastered across him in a great, long streak. Body protesting, he pushed himself upwards, and surveyed the damage. His sight had been correct: he was in a field. Halfway across it sat Silet, meticulously preening himself in a stiff sort of way. Like Gabilan, he was covered in mud and grass. Above him the sky was clear, and everything around him was gloriously wet thanks to the rain. Aching all over, and feeling like he’d just had to fight Silet for the first time all over again, Gabilan hauled himself to his feet. They’d cut a long, muddy gash in the field, that was for sure, but that seemed to be about the extent of the damage. With tentative hand, Gabilan felt himself, methodically checking for any damage. Nothing major aside from a cracked rib, but he’d live. Limping, he crossed the field to Silet. The bird paused in preening, eyeing Gabilan suspiciously. It was a look that seemed to say ‘ _This is **your** fault, you know.’_

Gabilan sighed.  “I know, I know,” he said again.

Gently he checked Silet over, using the same care and attention that he’d paid himself. The stormbird was bruised, yes, and he had a cut on his side that’d have to be watched, but like Gabilan, there was thankfully nothing major.

But as for the parcels…

Gabilan checked the field, glancing into the ones that surrounded it, a whole host twinges rippling across his body as he walked.

Nothing.

His deliveries were well and truly gone. As he painfully made his way back over to Silet, a black mood descended on him, thoughts whirling around his head. Great. Just great. Not only would he not be paid, he’d have to cover the losses too. _And_ he’d have to buy replacements for the ropes and tarpaulin, _and_ potentially have to buy painkillers for himself and Silet _and_ on top of it all, he absolutely _must_ send money back home. The more he thought about it, the more the expenses just seemed to pile up. Simply fantastic. First things first though.

“Come on,” he said to Silet.

The stormbird _kaarked_ , and stood.

Together they limped away from the crash site

\---

It was a long, painful trudge to the city of Drelna. Gablian sat on a rough bench outside a bar that the locals viewed as disreputable, his muscles sore and protesting from the hike. Beside him, nestled down on the ground, Silet was trilling to himself. Both were quietly eyeing the sky. But while Silet was looking at it with the glassy-eyed stare of a stormbird, Gabilan glowered at it. It was beautifully clear, tinged with pinks and golds from the setting sun, almost, Gabilan thought, in mockery of him. _That’ll teach you to try and earn a wage with my help_.

Lost in his own black mood, it was therefore a mild surprise when someone addressed him

“Hey. You. Birdman.”

The voice speaking to him was weasely, and marginally grating. At the sound of it, Gabilan repressed an even deeper scowl. If someone was trying to start something with him, then they’d be sorry. Still, with herculean effort, he forced himself to appear relaxed. In areas like this, where jumpiness could get you killed, nonchalance was better than outright aggression .He affected a disinterested air, gaze sliding to the addresser.

“Yes?”

Much like his voice, the elf who’d spoken to him was, well, not weasely, per say, but he was definitely somewhere within the family of mustelidae. Taking Gabilan’s interest as an open invitation, he sidled forward.

“You’re one of those, yeah?” he murmured. His eyes, Gabilan noticed, never seemed to stop darting here and there. The elf edged closer. “I’ve got a job for you.”

Depsite his foul mood, Gabilan’s ears pricked at the word ‘job’, and he half-twisted around, an indication that he was listening. The elf had a slippery way about him, his entire air speaking of work of an illegal nature. Mentally Gabilan shrugged; he had taken under-the-table deliveries before; they paid well, and he wasn’t the sort to ask unnecessary questions. At this point he’d smuggle the Erlking himself out of the country, anything to try and lessen the dent of his upcoming expenses.

Keeping an almost fearful eye on Silet, the elf plonked himself down next to Gabilan, as if they were nothing more than old friends.

“I need you to take care of someone.”

Gabilan felt his heart stop. Despite his restraint, his face must have twitched in some way, betraying some emotion which the elf read into in completely the wrong way, as the next second he was hastily blathering on.

“Hey, hey, it-it’s not like that, I can pay! Upfront! I mean, I’ve only got-“

For a second Gabilan could’ve sworn that his ears stopped working in shock as the elf named a figure. Why with that amount, he’d be able to cover, well, _everything_! And have some left over to send some home! A small war took its chance to suddenly wage inside him; on the one side was the allure of financial freedom, sinuous and enticing, and on the other was morality, sitting astride a donkey made of doubt.

Gabilan’s face was blank as the two scuffled, the elf in front of him steadily sweating more and more at the former’s silence. With every passing moment, financial stability grew stronger, as morality’s army was slowly eaten away by well-meaning arguments that came as it sideways: _it’ll be okay, you’ve euthanised stormbirds before, it’ll just be like that! It’ll mean helping your family, and, why, when you look at it like that, what’s one random life worth when weighed against seven that are precious to you?_

Financial stability won, holding morality’s decapitated head aloft on a pike.

“Who is it?” said Gabilan. It came out much gruffer than intended, his tongue feeling oddly heavy in his mouth.

The elf’s face brightened, and it wasn’t a very pleasant sight. If anything, it made him look rather deranged.

“The scumsack’s name is Triver, and he’s been sleeping with my w-“

Gabilan held up a hand to cut him off, and hoped that the elf didn’t notice how it trembled. Thankfully, his prospective employer didn’t, too caught up in his own excitement.

“I don’t need to know their life story. I just need to know what they look like, and where I can find them.” He paused, and when he next spoke, it was more for his own confirmation than anyone.

“I’ll do it.”

It would be fine.

\---

It wasn’t fine, he wasn’t fine, why in the Erlking’s name had decided to agree to _assassination_ of all things?! Crouched behind a ramshackle sofa in a dingy, single-room home, Gabilan shook as he tried to soothe his jangled nerves. The knife in his hand felt unnaturally heavy, like it was a cursed artefact made out of the heaviest iron, rather than a simple traveller’s knife that he used for cutting rope. Surely there were better ways to make money?! Like what, organ harvesting? This was a terrible idea, he had the money, he should just _go_ , abandon this whole venture before he ended up with blood on his hands.

… And be in a whole mess of trouble for a variety of reasons.

He shook himself, pinching his arm for good measure. No. There was no backing out now. A little train of thoughts ran though his head, with alternating carriages carrying a lie: He was doing it for his family, it was only a stormbird he’d be killing, he was doing it for his family, it was only a stormbird he’d be killing, he was doing it for his family, it was only a stormbird-!

“Oi!”

Gabilan froze- _this was it, he’d been discovered_!

“Where’ve you been?” the voice continued, and _thank the Erlking_ , it was coming from somewhere outside, filtering in through the broken window.

Gabilan felt a modicum of stress lift off his shoulders, and had the back of the sofa not been filthy, he would have slumped against it in relief. As it was he remained squatting awkwardly. He eyed the window, his entrance into the house. Triver probably wouldn’t appreciate having his only window broken, but considering what was about to happen, he had more pressing issues to be concerned about.

The minutes ticked by. Gablian ran a damp hand over his equally damp face, feathers sticking to his skin. He’d forgone his mask for once; hopefully his unusual appearance would give this Triver pause enough to make his task easier.

The latch clicked. Gabilan felt himself tense. The door swung open, as the sound of footsteps carried someone inside.

“Hm?”

There was a brief lull, the scuff of feet on floor as their owner stopped.

‘ _Only a stormbird, only a stormbird,_ ’ thought Gabilan, a panicked mantra in his mind.

“Oi! My window!”

Hurried footsteps beat a staccato rhythm across the floor.

‘ _Only a stormbird, only a stormbird, only a stormbird_ …’

Gabilan seized his chance, he leapt out from behind the sofa, vaulting over it. His feet thudded against the floor in landing, Triver was turning, but Gabilan was charging over to him. His cursed appearance did the trick, as a look of mild horror crossed the other elf’s face. But it wasn’t long enough, the next second Triver had gotten a hold of himself once more.

“Here, who the f-“

‘ _ONLY A STORMBIRD!’_

Gabilan lashed out, Triver’s furious outburst cut off as the knife struck his throat. Through some dark miracle he struck true, slicing a nasty gash on the unfortunate Triver’s neck.

As Gabilan discovered, there was a world of difference, planets, really, between cutting the throat of a sedentary stormbird who was slowly dying of illness, and attempting to cut the throat of a live, struggling elf.

The former was a quiet affair, a kindness, where life slipped away and was grateful to be leaving.

The latter was a horrible sight, a desperate struggle to cling to life, accompanied by noises out of a nightmare that would turn the stomach of the hardiest elf.

Gabilan could only watch as, clutching at his throat, Triver crumpled to the floor, and was eventually still.

Feeling oddly light-headed, and satisfied that his target was dead, Gabilan made his escape.

\---

Later, as Silet beat a steady rhythm across the sky, Gabilan inspected the purse of money he’d obtained for his work. It’d been… an experience, yes, but the results weren’t to be sniffed at. He narrowed his eyes as he held up a coin, running a critical eye over it as it glinted in the light.

This’d help his mother, right enough. Triver’s blood-soaked body drifted to the forefront of his mind, guilt and fear trying to rise up, but Gabilan pushed both away with surprising ease; he was aloft in the open sky, and here, everything felt all right. In that moment, a new certainty was born within him. Assassination was an unpleasant business, but when it got results like these, and for the sake of supporting his family, he’d do it again.

/////

_Dear Gabi,_

_It’s been a while since your last letter – everything okay? Ah, you’re probably just busy with work, aren’t you? I bet you’re off in all sorts of exotic parts of the country, the sort of places which letters have a hard time reaching. Wherever you are, stay safe, yeah? I sleep better knowing you’ve got your bird with you to help keep you on track. Thanks again for the money you’ve been sending. You’re a good lad._

_See you soon!  
Your mother, Llarell_

/////

The next time it happened, Gabilan was in a bar. It was a miserable sort of hole, a place where elves went to do three things: drink, forget, and be left alone. He’d just finished a delivery that had been dicey in more ways than one; on the way a wyvern had tried to take bite out of Silet, and at the destination, one of the people hadn’t paid up. So he found himself needing a little space to let his dark mood fester and dissipate.

An elf plonked himself down at Gabilan’s table; he had affixed the intruder with a flat stare, warning them away. Or if not away, at least to give an explanation.

“ ‘ve got a job for you,” the intruder said. “A friend of mine said you’d be able to help in sorting out matters like these.”

At that, the elf had fixed the barely-visible knife at Gabilan’s hip with a very specific sort of gaze that communicated _exactly_ what sort of job he had in mind.

In the ensuing conversation, the intruder venturing the _who_ and _where_ , Gabilan listened. Thought. And when the elf had finished speaking, accepted.

In many ways, that second time was easier than the first; nerves still accosted him, but he had the element of surprise, and the kill was cleaner.

When he was offered a third job of that nature, he thought, and accepted.

After the seventh job, his hands stopped shaking.

In the years that followed, an odd, invisible balance, shifted. He took on fewer and fewer deliveries, instead taking on the work of a hitman in their stead, drawing further and further into the shadows. And eventually there came a day when he ceased to deliver altogether.

/////

_Dear Gabi,_

_Great news! Thanks to your hard work, we’ve been able to purchase a smallholding. It’s nothing like the size of our old farm, but it’s a start. Gabi, I can’t tell you how happy we all are to be back at the farming game, it’s like everyone’s got a new lease of life once more. ‘Course we can’t all just up and drop our jobs – we’ve gotta get everything set up first and it’ll be a while before we can make any profit, no matter how small. That’s what’s been happening here, what about with you? Where are you? You haven’t written in so long that sometimes I’m scared that’s something’s happened to you. And if it weren’t for seeing you the other month, that fear would be a lot stronger._

_Please write soon.  
Your mother, Llarell_

/////

Gabilan peered at the land below, slowly scanning back and forth. Automatically he shifted his weight just so, and Silet responded, banking so that he was tracing a slow circle in the sky. As it was, Gabilan barely acknowledged or even noticed the change, instead continuing to stare downward. He frowned to himself, eyes narrowing at the darkened landscape. Somewhere down there, was supposedly a house. All his sources had confirmed it as a sure thing, including the elf who’d hired him! And it wasn’t as if it was one of those walking monstrosities that could be found all over Windsor, which could up sticks and move at the drop of a hat. It was a stationary, rooted in brick and mortar, _house_. And yet for the past forty-five minutes, he’d been flying in circles, trying to spot it.

He stared some more, willing the building to pop into existence-

Suddenly, his eye caught on something. From this height, it looked almost like a small hill, and could have easily been mistaken for one except for what looked like a few panels in it, glinting in the moonlight. That _had_ to be the place.

“Finally,” growled Gabilan.

He brought Silet in for a landing, and found himself stopped short for a second by the sight of the house.

It was entirely overgrown - everything but the doors and windows was covered in a thick mat of vegetation. The garden was no better, a small jungle’s worth of dense grass and flora packed behind a fence. Gabilan scrutinised it warily. Well that complicated matters: a literal home-grown alarm system. There was no way he’d get through that quietly. Time to regroup.

He stealthily hurried back to Silet, and less than a minute later he was dropping onto the roof, the stormbird swooping away. From there it was an awkward clamber across the side of the house, Gabilan clinging onto the thick tangle of plant life as he made his way to a window. A moment of jimmying later, he was in.

Instantly the smell of must and old books enveloped him, as tome-laden shelves towered over him on all sides. A library. Gabilan paid these things little notice; from above the house had appeared dark with no lights on, so therefore his quarry must be asleep.

Stealthily, he slipped deeper into the house. He crept through the darkened house on snow-silent feet. As he padded along the edge of a narrow hallway, carefully testing the floor as he went, he eyed the décor. It would appear that his target was fond of deep colours and heavy materials, helpful for muffling sound. Still, as he made his way past a grandfather clock that ticked to itself ominously, he couldn’t help but feel like he was in a haunted house from a ghost story. There was an unnaturally still air to the whole place, a sense of abandonment lingering in the halls. Had his employer not been vehement that his quarry was alive, having just seen him a few days before, Gabilan would have had second thoughts about the entire hit.

He pushed such doubt to the back of his mind, and focused on the search, eventually locating the bedroom. Like a wraith, he slipped inside, crossing the floor to the bed, where a sleeping figure lay. He loomed above them, knife at the ready…

And paused.

The person below him was too still, too silent.

With a feather-soft touch, Gabilan felt the man. He was stiff, his flesh a cooler temperature than it should’ve been.

Dead.

If he had to guess, Gabilan estimated that he’d been that way for several hours. A light tension filled him, every sense now on high alert. Keeping an ear out for any stray sounds, he silently lifted the sheet and inspected the body. Aside from the hallmarks of age, there wasn’t a mark on him, no wounds, nor any signs of any struggle or suffocation. Nothing. Poison, then? Harder to say, but they weren’t without their tells; none of which were present here either. So, less likely, but still a possibility to consider.

Perhaps it was simply age that finished the man off, then? He was elderly, and yes, looking at it like that, pieces of a picture neatly fell into place: He’d gone to bed that evening, ready to sleep like normal, but had instead expired. Gabilan pulled a face, sceptical. It was too neat, too _tidy_. Replacing the sheet, he took a step back, and thought. The house was as silent as the tomb it’d become. The overgrown exterior had shown no signs of passage through it, nor did any of the windows or doors appear disturbed. Unless they had dropped from the sky like he had, or had burrowed up from the ground, there was little chance anyone else had gotten inside.

Gabilan looked at the man once more.

‘ _Better safe than sorry,_ ’ he thought.

 With practised movements, Gabilan finished him off, a task made somewhat redundant since the man was already dead. Then, noiselessly, he slipped from the room, retracing his steps back through the house. This had been a sketchy deal, even by his standards, now filled with its own plethora of little mysteries. Mysteries, Gabilan noted, that would remain unsolved, as he was getting out of here, his work for the night finished.

He slunk into the library, looking for the window he’d entered through, and his eyes happened to pass over a portrait. The next second they’d flicked back to it, Gabilan softly coming to a halt. The portrait itself was fairly stodgy and unremarkable; the late elderly gentleman when younger, dressed in a formal fashion and looking dully at the viewer with what looked like a heavy velvet curtain for the backdrop. No, it was what was resting proudly on the man’s chest, a great deal of care and attention devoted to its portrayal, _that_ was what drew Gabilan’s attention.

A stone.

_The man had been a stonekeeper_.

An old, well-stoked rage suddenly filled Gabilan’s veins; he suddenly found himself wishing that he’d blindly stabbed the man several times with complete and utter disregard for whether the wounds were neat. He stared at the offending article with such intensity that he felt almost light-headed, like he had transcended into another state of being. Delicate lines spiralled over the stone’s surface in a wave like design, and in the low light, its colour was hard to tell. Gabilan rocked back on his heels, surveyed the library anew.

‘ _You should leave_ ,’ said the rational part of his mind. ‘ _Your job is done, to hang around here would be foolish._ ’

But the rush of blood in his ears was too great, and the worst kind of fury had settled upon his shoulders: the quiet kind, which bides its time and waits to strike.

He had not yet enacted vengeance upon the stonekeepers, and here was the potential chance for knowledge about them, dropped straight into his lap! Surely the old goat had something relating to them in this library, some key that could potentially aid him well.

No longer caring about leaving, he began to browse the shelves. Haste made his tread heavier than he would’ve liked, but he didn’t care, for these shelves which he’d initially dismissed were packed to the beak with books on stonekeepers!

Gabilan paused, a plan concocting in his mind. Given the remote location of the house, and its inadvertent camouflage, it would probably be a little while before anyone came knocking. That was time enough to steal a library’s worth of books.

\---

_Gabi,_

_Where are you? You haven’t been home in so long, and I’m starting to get worried. I stayed up all night waiting for you on the day you usually come back, but you didn’t show! Has something happened? Are you stranded somewhere? Sick? I keep trying to reassure myself, but it’s hard when there’s nothing but silence on your end. You’re still sending money, so you must be alive…  
That brings me to something else – Gabi, where are you getting such large amounts of money? Not that we aren’t grateful, but the quantity you sent last time is way more than what a courier would earn – even a top class one like yourself. What are you doing to get so much? Nothing illegal, I hope! You’ve always been a good lad through the years, despite everything that’s happened. Please don’t be doing something that’s gonna get you in trouble._

_Please.  
Your mother, Llarell_

\---

In the end, he stowed them all in a mountain cave known only to him, where in another life, he used to rest between deliveries. It was a gargantuan task clearing out that library, but what a reward it was! For almost three years he secluded himself away, doing little but read and study, stopping only to occasionally do a job and send money back to his family. There were books on stonekeeper history, the enigmatic Motherstone, the dangerous Void, lists of stonekeepers long gone, and even a tome devoted to the stonekeepers in elven royalty. That particular book made Gabilan’s blood run cold. Of course royalty would be stonekeepers. _Of course_. A half-crazed, treasonous thought entered his mind.

‘ _I shall just have to rid the world of them, too_.’ Yes, rid the world of them… and then what? Another filthy stonekeeping elf would just rise up to take their place. Ah, but the answer was simple. ‘ ** _I_** _shall become King, and put an end to the whole affair._ ’

Of course, the books weren’t all solely about stonekeepers. There was one in particular that grabbed Gabilan’s interest enough to read it over and over until the pages were worn, the edges dog-eared. It concerned the energy the stones gave out and utilised, its makeup, the manner in which it behaved, how it affected and interacted with the world. But it was the list of alloys that had either dampening or sponge-like effects that really lit a fire in his mind. With this sort of knowledge, and with the correct balance of metals, he could perhaps forge something to deflect the magic of the stones! And what was more, if he applied the formulae and ideas in the book regarding stonekeeper energy, why then, he could potentially make a weapon powerful enough to kill a stonekeeper!

And what was this, this slim, unremarkable looking volume that went into the application of memories…?

Oh, he was going to be _busy_.

\---

It was a reborn, rejuvenated Gabilan who ultimately emerged from the cave. At his side was a shield, made of a delicate combination of various ores and metals that would absorb and deflect the magic of stonekeepers. It’d taken many attempts, but he had finally managed to engineer it so that it would fold up - a necessity given that flight was his primary mode of transport.

Secondly, there was a magitek gun, with enough kick to given even a rampaging, monsterous stonekeeper pause.

But it was his third invention, the one pertaining to memories, which he was most proud of. With it, he could pluck the very memories out of a person’s mind, stealing them away like a goblin out of a children’s fairy tale.

Standing in the dawn of a new day, Silet by his side, Gabilan smiled grimly, sharp teeth gleaming.

He’d wasted enough hours on other frivolities.

It was time to make the stonekeepers pay.

Starting with finding out about the one that had destroyed his farm.

/////

_Gabi,_

_The money you send is the only thing that makes me certain that you’re alive._  
_Why do you no longer come home?_  
_Have we done something wrong?_  
_Please, come back, Gabilan._  
_We miss you terribly._

_Your mother, Llarell._

/////

“I am… so very glad, to meet you.”

The voice was old, no more than a hiss between the teeth, but Gabilan had to admit that the acoustics in the room were perfect. As such, it felt like the voice’s owner was whispering right into his ear, a disconcerting sensation.

“A little bird has told me many things about you, Gabilan.” Had the speaker been anyone else, they would have paused at that point to laugh at their own joke. As it was, an uncomfortable silence filled the air. Unusually, Gabilan felt compelled to break it for once.

“I wouldn’t necessarily believe everything birds say, your Majesty.”

From his distant position on the throne, the Erlking shifted slightly; it was a mild tilt of the head, not one of confusion or curiosity, but one of a more calculating bent. Like he was weighing up what he saw before him, slotting it into an equation somewhere.

“Indeed,” he finally said.

Another pause stretched out, and Gabilan swore to himself that he would not be the one to break it this time. The summons to this meeting sat heavily in his pocket; truth be told, he didn’t know how it’d gotten there, or even if anyone had had a chance to even put it in such a place. But there it was, the symbol of the Erlking’s mask embossed up on the envelope, and then repeated again on the wax seal. When he’d discovered it, Gabilan had looked it over with a great deal of suspicion before slitting it open.

It’d read:

_The Erlking demands your presence._

And that was _all_ it read, nothing on the other side but another embossment of the Erlking’s mask.

Well, that was straightforward, he’d had to admit. Straightforwardness was something he could appreciate after years of having to sit through people rambling about why they wanted other folk dead, despite his repeated attempts to divert them to the basics of _who_ and _where_.

“This is probably a trap,” Gabilan said to himself, and Silet had squawked, almost as if in agreement.

But certain things didn’t quite add up; if the Erlking truly wanted him dead or arrested for assassination, then it would’ve trickled down through various officials, ending with a clutch of soldiers coming to kick his head in. The Erlking was simply too powerful, too high up the chain to bother with dealing with someone one on one when it came to legal matters. So, something else, then.

If the Erlking was anything like how he was in the reports, then failure to comply would mean a catchment of soldiers coming to kick his head in anyway, before dragging him in front of their ruler. Gabilan could either go into what was a potential trap of his own free will, or be dragged into it.

He chose to go.

Besides, if he was going to take down the notoriously private Erlking and become King in his stead, then he’d need all the upfront knowledge he could get.

And now here he was, standing in the audience hall in the castle at Valcor, having what was turning into a glorified game of ‘who-can-be-quiet-the-longest’.

The Erlking gestured with a palm, a long, languid movement that was strangely smooth and disconcerting. “It has come to my attention that you are good at making people… forget.”

Gabilan nodded. “That is correct.”

The Erlking made a humming noise in his throat, and steepled his fingers. Gabilan couldn’t help but notice how long and pale they were, like little columns of bone.

“Three are certain people among us, who would benefit from having particular things removed from their minds.”

Gabilan released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Finally, the meat of the issue.

“Who?” he asked.

“My sons,” came the hiss of a reply. “Luger. Trellis.”

Gabilan felt himself blanch involuntarily; he would turn on his _own sons?_ Sons that were both stonekeepers, he hastily reminded himself, and with that his reservations dissipated.

In a voice that surprised even himself with how level it, was Gabilan spoke.

“What do they need to forget?”

This time, Gabilan could practically hear the smile in the Erlking’s voice.

“Oh, not much.”

/////

_To Gabilan,_

_I don’t know if you read the letters sent to you anymore, but if you’re reading this then you’ve probably guessed from the penwork that it’s not your mother. It’s me, Newman. Now, I know we’ve never been close over the years, not like the manner in which you and your mother and uncle are (or were) close, and I can respect that. I also understand if you don’t want to listen to me. But please, just hear me out. I’m really writing this on behalf of Llarell. She doesn’t like to let on, instead busying herself about the smallholding, but she misses you terribly. In fact, we all miss you, but Llarell misses you the most – it’s like a hole in her heart. I don’t know why you don’t write to us anymore, and I wish I knew why you no longer come home – we keep sending you our address so there’s less chance of you turning up at a house full of strangers – but if it’s because of me and mine, or if we’ve wronged you in some way, we are so, deeply sorry. Please, just tell us what we’ve done wrong so that we can apologise for it and make amends. I’m on my knees here, Gabilan. Imagine me kneeling in front of you as you read this._

_I don’t know what else to say._

_She dreams about you at night, you know. I hear her mumble your name, along with the name ‘Kaspar’. She never looks sad when she’s like this though, she only looks contented and peaceful. I think she’s dreaming of happier times._

_Please come home, not for my sake, but for Llarell’s._

_Sincerely,_

_Newman_

/////

The summons were in Gabilan’s pocket once more, and he absentmindedly fished it out with little to no fanfare. He’d long ago ceased trying to figure out how or why it got there, instead just chalking it to filthy stonekeeper magic. Granted, it wasn’t a very good explanation, but it was better than wasting time on a minor quandary when he had better work to do. He paid little heed to either the embossed Erlking symbol, or its rendition in wax, as he sliced the envelope open. There it was, the same five words staring out at him as always:

_The Erlking demands your presence._

As he saddled up Silet, Gabilan considered the summons. What was it this time? More memory wiping? He’d siphoned so many out of Luger and Trellis’ minds over the years, that at this rate they would have nothing left in their skulls but dust and accursed stonekeeper magic. And Sybrian, in Trellis’ case. It probably was just that – more memories being stolen. Perhaps one of them had seen something that they shouldn’t have, learned a piece of knowledge that was forbidden to them.

Hoisting himself onto Silet, Gabilan nudged the bird’s sides. With a powerful upwards surge of wings, they were aloft.

And yet…

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different about this summons. It almost felt as if he was standing on the precipice of some big event, that by setting off this day, some serious course of action was now being set into motion that would lead to a domino line of events, the gears and cogs beginning to interlock and spin…

Beneath him, Silet squawked.

Gabilan shook himself.

He was probably just overthinking things.

Together, bird and elf soared away towards Valcor, and to the events that awaited them there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: AND IT IS DONE. HOLY KITTENS. Original work withstanding, this is probably the lonest fic I’ve ever written. I worked on it on and off over a period of months, but these past two weeks, and this week in particular, I’ve done nothing else but work on getting it finished. It's been a hell of a ride, and I'm glad it's done.
> 
> A note: Originally I was going have two scenes where he wiped Luger and Trellis' memories, but, er, Amulet's internal timeline is horrific, and I had no idea how old to make them, so it got the chop. orz Another thing that was similarly cut was him researching the Stonekeeper that destryoed his farm - it just felt really bulky and I'm exhausted, sorry.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I'm delighted I was able to finsh this before Book 8 comes out and invariably retcons something, ahahaha..


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